Liu Linglie: To Write Poetry with the Dust of the Earth

In his seminal essay The Origin of the Work of Art, Martin Heidegger posited that poetry forms the essence of all artistic expression. For Taiwanese painter Liu Linglie, this is not merely a philosophical concept but a tactile reality. She composes her verses not with ink and quill, but with the crushed dust of the earth itself—mineral pigments that carry the geological memory of the landscapes she portrays.

Liu’s practice is an act of translation: converting the silent language of nature into a visual lexicon. She uses the weight and texture of mineral pigments to capture the weightless, ephemeral qualities of existence—the yearning of a bird in flight, the melancholic droop of a withered flower, or the quietude of an autumn moon mirrored in a lake. It is a harmonious unity where the medium constitutes the message; the Earth is painted with the Earth.

Liu’s painting Autumn-Riverside portrays white reeds swaying in the sunset, with a dog looking back in the distance

The Architecture of Sentiment

Born into a lineage of esteemed artists in Taiwan, Liu’s facility with the brush was evident early on. Decades ago, as a university student, her technical prowess allowed her to replicate Eastern and Western masterpieces with a precision that bordered on deception. However, technical perfection is often a cage for the spirit.

Seeking to break the boundaries of mere replication, Liu pursued a Master of Arts at New York University. It was there, amidst the cacophony of a cultural melting pot and the rigorous structural demands of Western art, that she found her way back to the East. The distance provided clarity. While Western pedagogy often emphasized precise proportions and anatomical exactitude, Liu felt the pull of the “carefree spirit” inherent in the teachings of Lao Zi and Zhuang Zi.

“Ancient Chinese art has always been imbued with a carefree spirit,” Liu reflects. “These enlightened philosophers have inspired both Easterners and Westerners by highlighting the importance of harmonious unity with nature.”

This realization marked a shift from painting what is seen to painting what is felt. She recalled her childhood, listening to her father and his contemporaries recite poetry. The images conjured in those sessions—majestic mountains, meandering streams, and the invisible fragrance of forests—settled into her subconscious, waiting for the right medium to surface.

Taiwanese painter Liu Linglie standing in front of her artwork

The Resonance of the Void

Liu’s paintings are defined by what is present and, crucially, by what is absent. Utilizing a vivid interplay of mineral pigments against austere backgrounds of black, white, or grey, she constructs a visual dialogue of Yin and Yang. This is not merely a contrast of light and dark, but a tension between tension and softness, the tangible and the intangible.

In works like Spring in Winter, the artist navigates this duality. The flowing spring water cuts through the desolation of winter, acting as a vein of life that nourishes the dormant trees. The viewer can almost sense the brewing essence of early spring, a vitality that exists just beneath the surface of the visible world.

By leaving space within the composition—a hallmark of Eastern aesthetics—Liu invites the viewer to become an active participant. The emptiness is not a vacuum; it is a space for the viewer’s mind to wander, to complete the narrative that the brush has only suggested.

Liu’s painting Spring in Winter depicts flowing spring water amidst a desolate landscape

A Dialogue with Impermanence

Like the literati scholars of the past, Liu often composes poems to accompany her visual works, creating a dual layer of emotional resonance. During the isolation of the pandemic, she penned Moonlit Rivers at Night, a verse that speaks to the “lonely heart” surrounded by the ethereal glow of the moon, turning to the vastness of the sea to embrace impermanence.

This poetic sentiment is visually echoed in her 2014 piece, The Way We Came. The painting is a study in atmosphere; thick clouds obscure the path, evoking a profound sense of solitude. Yet, within this gray expanse, there is a quiet optimism. The serene drama of the composition forces a confrontation with the passage of time—reminding us that the human journey is often a solitary walk through mist, defined as much by the fog as by the clearing.

The Way We Came, painting by Liu Linglie, 2014, showing a misty, ethereal path

The Ritual of Observation

For Liu, the act of painting is preceded by a ritual of deep observation. Now in her forties, she describes a heightened state of concentration, a spiritual connection that she views as the pinnacle of creative existence. “Once I sit in front of my painting, I can enter a desired state,” she notes.

This state allows her to perceive the “inner spirit” of her subjects. A simple flower with eight petals is not just a botanical object; it is a living entity with a distinct trajectory. When sketching, Liu might curl a stem not to correct nature, but to amplify its inherent motion. “I can change it and give it more life,” she explains. “This process truly feels like becoming one with nature; I become one with this flower.”

In Morning Dew, this empathetic gaze renders a warm palette of browns and yellows. The morning sun does not just illuminate the bamboo; it seems to sprinkle existence upon it. The newly sprouted shoots are bathed in a “radiance of life,” capturing that fleeting moment when the world feels essentially new.

Through her mineral pigments, Liu Linglie does not seek to freeze time, but to immortalize its flow. She aims for a sense of ethereality—a painted silence that allows the viewer to hear the wind in the reeds and feel the warmth of the sun, long after the moment has passed.

Liu’s painting Morning Dew features bamboo plants illuminated by warm morning sunlight