Basically the TV show was about a day in the life of a successful artist making Chinese style tall wall scrolls. His day started quite early with a simple cup of tea. With the discipline of a lifetime, the general was very much a morning person. He went through a lot of technical preparation to paint a wall scroll. The best paper had to be selected and placed correctly on a long, low wooden table. The inks, red and black, had to be coaxed, hand-rubbed from blocks onto stone. Various brushes were thoroughly vetted, approved, and placed for inks.

But, as carefully done as all this was, these were just the material things. The general had to prepare properly. He changed into a loose but paradoxically formal robe, obviously meant only for the next task. Carefully making himself comfortable on a special cushion, the general knelt down in front of the empty piece of paper he was waiting for, prayed a little and then, motionless, he meditated in silence for about twenty minutes. Waking up quietly, he gathered his tools and faced the paper like a cat preparing to pounce. Suddenly, everything became a wild blur of highly-intentioned movement. With a brush in each hand, the general launched himself at the paper, circling, perhaps as a hawk dispatching a dangerous viper.

So, everything ended; it had taken five, maybe ten minutes at the most. The now rather small man sank back against his cushions, visibly exhausted from his concentrated efforts. After a few minutes of calm breathing, he slowly got up and turned the paper upright. Upright now, an angry black stallion reared back, mane swirling wildly around a powerful neck. There was no showing the hauling effort of the medieval European war horse, almost ox-like, over-laden with thick padding and iron armor. Rather, this was simply a sentient dark power with a purpose, plus the wild prancing horse of the Italian Renaissance. (Used today as the corporate icon for Ferrari cars.) This was not a servant, nor was it a domesticated draft animal. If you were worthy, this could be your equine companion.

How did this frail old man achieve this? And in just a few minutes! He had seen the brushes turn, he had seen the black ink fly. But where did this angry and ferocious horse spirit that burst out of the paper come from? From hell? From the sky? From both? How could he have done this? Unarguably, much of the answer must be, because he’s done it all before. Many times before. This last time, the brushes had flown almost by themselves, as if by the so-called muscle memory; like you and I could have ridden a bike. The general had imagined a horse; his hands had painted it for him.

According to television, the rest of the general’s day was really banal in its normality. She put away her tools, took a quick shower, dressed smartly in a jacket and tie with a black hat on top of her white hair, and went out to a modest lunch with friends at a neighborhood cafe.

The general took little part in the arrangement of his work. The narrator said that yes, there was an agent, but the sales were incredibly easy. The old soldier had become General Horse. His horses were acquired as they became available, fetching as much as $10,000 in 1990 and often through hidden intermediaries, surprisingly, they were even sought after by some on the then heavily closed continent. But good art is good art.

What should I take from this story? I think it illustrates the value of focus, both tactically and strategically. (Or maybe locally and globally). For one thing, the general focused all of his attention on the horse just before putting brush and ink to paper. He had all of his attention. Meditating, he concentrated deeply on his subject matter. I imagine he imagined himself, eyes closed, standing under the raised hooves, his hand raised wet with flying saliva and almost deafened by the screams of the stallion. He could see every taut muscle and loose hair in the full mane and lush tail. He had to work at breakneck speed to capture and tame the beast before he was trampled by those deadly weapons. On the other hand, he was the General Horse. Horse only. Neither did Colonel Tiger, Sergeant Rooster and Admiral Shark. He made horses, he focused only on horses. And so he had mastered them. Finally, General Horse seems to be no longer interested in becoming an artist or being an artist. Not even General Artist. Instead, he thought only of making art, though he concentrated intently on painting his horses. This freed him up to simply be General Horse.

P.S. A year ago, despite much research, I was unable to discover any trace of the ghostly General Horse. Despite emails back and forth with local museums and TV stations, I learned nothing beyond what I could remember myself. But just today, my wife found out the general’s name, if not much else. He was Yeh Tsui Pai. He was born in 1909 or 1910 and died in 1999. A biography of Taiwan is available on the Internet. Taken together though, there is still little left to find. My personal General Horse remains almost a ghost, mysteriously achieving wonderful things in Chinese art.