One afternoon, hurrying home from the airport on a shuttle bus, I was greeted by the sprawling suburban landscape dotted with grayish buildings. Never before had I thought of these structures as anything pleasant to behold. But fresh off the plane and back in my hometown, the sight of the familiar filled me with exhilaration.
It is true that Western architecture is magnificent, but ours resembles Chinese brush painting—though lacking in bright colors, it possesses its own beauty, especially when one has grown tired of vivid hues. In China, nothing stands out too sharply; there always seems to be a layer of gray floating gently over the surface.
Of course, today we have skyscrapers and modern facilities of every kind. Yet beneath this cloak of “Westernization,” we have still preserved elements that are distinctly Chinese.
Take gardens, for example. If you pause to savor the beauty of a traditional Chinese garden, you will find it utterly different from Western ones. When I first visited St. James’s Park near Buckingham Palace, I was struck by its sweeping lawns, spread across the park like a velvet carpet.
In a traditional Chinese garden, however, you are not met with such an expansive view. Unlike the straightforward layout of Western gardens, Chinese gardens are designed with winding paths and concealed scenes, so that you can never take in the whole scenery at a single glance.
While modern designers often prize “unobstructed views,” traditional Chinese garden designers took great pains to create “obstructed views”—ensuring the scenery changes with every step. Visitors are kept in a constant state of discovery, learning to appreciate their surroundings with fresh eyes.
Unlike Western gardens, you are guided into a series of intimate spaces, each with its own atmosphere—whether a cluster of flowering shrubs, a tranquil pond, or a secluded courtyard.
Yet the proper way to appreciate such a garden differs from what we usually do as visitors: always moving, always photographing—letting the camera lens become our eyes, while our own eyes dart about searching for more to feed the lens. No, that is not the right approach.
We should pause for a while, sit down, and let our gaze settle on the beauty around us—just as the ancient Chinese did. Notice how the flowers bloom, how the golden fish swim in line and rise to the surface for food, how the winding corridor slowly disappears from view. Then imagine yourself as part of the whole scene.