Paint whenever the impulse to paint arises. Whatever brush one uses is possible—though each brush brings a different effect, a different sensation. A single stroke may generate the painting; or it may begin with a mass of ink. One may paint into wetness, or with a dry brush, or with splashed ink and color. Yet at its core remain the traditional methods of Chinese painting: the flowing of the heart-source gives birth to form in accordance with nature—**“externally taking nature as teacher, internally finding the source in the heart.”** Method has no fixed method; it arises freely and spontaneously. Everything is determined by the present moment and unfolds by following its natural momentum. **Cunfa**—texture strokes—still exist, but are only occasionally used; they no longer dominate. At times the paper is crumpled before painting begins, and at times it is transformed and crumpled in the midst of the work, so that the crease itself takes the place of texture stroke. Water, color, dryness, and moisture cause the raw xuan paper to contract in different ways, forming natural folds; these folds are nature’s own wrinkles, and the painting proceeds by following their course. Layering, reassembling, overlapping, yielding, reflecting, rhythm, cadence, weight and lightness, speed and slowness—all continue to follow the philosophical core of traditional Chinese painting. The brush, the color, the ink, the water, the very material of raw xuan paper; the compositional structure, the blankness, the breathing space, the permeation of warm and cool tones—all remain rooted in that tradition. Technique advances toward the Way, always in accord with the thousand-year bloodline and philosophy of Chinese painting: blankness is breath, and folds are the bones of character. It is a contemporary writing of the ancient opening and closing of yin and yang, a shared undertaking with paper, ink, water, and color—a natural unfolding, as though all had conspired together in the making of a living drama.