A monk came to Zhaozhou and asked to be taught. Zhaozhou asked if he had eaten. The monk said yes. Zhaozhou said, then go wash your bowl. The monk woke up on the spot. The instruction is small. The mind it lands in is not. This canvas is the mind: red, pink, cobalt, yellow, and black stacked in layers, with script running over every one of them.
Large letters march across the top. Smaller writing fills the black at the lower left. Arrows, crosses, boxed forms, figures, and numbers occupy every inch that color left open. Drips fall from the top edge to the bottom. Nothing here resolves and nothing is meant to. The teaching is not to quiet the field. It is to go wash your bowl while the field does what it does. Just under eight feet wide, and the largest work in the studio. It takes a wall that can give it room and rewards both distances, as weather from across a space and as a thousand separate decisions up close.
