Welcome to.
.
.
Soothe quietly.
I'm so glad.
You are here tonight.
Find a comfortable position.
N Let your body settle gently beneath you.
Relax your shoulders.
Release any tension in your jaw.
Soften the muscles around your eyes and brow.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
And breathe out through your mouth.
With each steady breath.
The sounds of your day.
Begin to fade.
Quietly.
Into the background.
There is nowhere else you need to be denied.
Now let yourself drift softly into tonight's story.
Tonight.
We step quietly back.
More than 2,
200 years ago.
Into the Qing dynasty.
One China's first emperor.
Unified the many states.
Into a single empire.
And was raising his army of clay.
To stand watch over his tomb.
East of the imperial capital of Xianyan.
Beneath the quiet slopes of Mount Lee.
Among the many workshops.
Scattered at the mountain's foot.
One of the quieter workshops was devoted to a different kind of skill.
Bringing each fired figure to life.
By leering like a fuss.
Done.
Carefully applying color.
Tonight,
We gently follow one of the workshop painters.
A woman.
With a practice eye for color.
Through a still winter afternoon.
In the painting workshop.
It is still winter afternoon.
Snow fell lightly overnight.
N.
Has settled thin and even.
Across the workshop roof.
Dough.
Inside the painting workshop.
A brassiere of glowing charcoal.
Keeps the air warm enough for steady hands.
Unlike the open sheds.
Where the clay is shape and dry.
This workshop is closed on all sides.
Each single window.
Shuddered against the cold and its walk shuddered from the frost.
That could ruin a careful brush stroke.
The woman.
News beside the breeze here.
A shallow stone pile.
And a smooth grinding stone.
Sat on the low table before her.
She came to this workshop.
Three winters ago.
From a family of dyers.
In and near my town.
Bring in with her a brightest eye for colour.
That few among the artisans here can match.
Today.
As most do.
A row of fired figures already sealed with lacquer.
Weights along the wall for her brush.
The shadow's edges let in.
Only the faintest grey light.
Most of the workshop warmth and glow.
Coming.
Instead from the brazier at her side.
Beside hot table.
Sit small woven baskets.
Each.
Holding a different mineral.
Brought from far beyond this valley.
Deep Red Cinema.
Rich green minerals.
A deep blue mineral.
And a red violet pigment.
Prepared in another workshop.
Known here as Papo.
A shade.
Later,
Scholars call hen papo.
She lift a lamp of Seneba and Place it in the stone bowl.
Tanning it once.
In half fingers.
To judge its weight.
Before she begins.
The brazier call.
Shift faintly.
Settling into a low steady red glow.
That warms the small workshop.
Without ever flaring bright.
She reaches for the grinding stone.
Its underside won't smooth and slightly hollowed from years of the same patient work.
Along the far wall.
The Fired Clay Soldiers,
Terracotta Warrior.
Stand pure and bare.
Waiting for the colors,
Now taking shape.
In the small stone basket beside her.
Bind the time she is finished with each one.
That peel fired clay.
Will have disappeared.
Be neat.
Layers of lacquer and mineral colour.
Restoring something of the appearance of a living army.
She begins to cry the cinnabar.
In low even circles.
The stone.
Moving against Joan.
With a soft,
Grating whisper.
That fills the choir workshop.
Red dust gathers at the bottom of the bowel.
Fine as flour.
The powder.
Becoming smoother.
Beneath.
Every 10 of the grinding stone.
She pulls now.
Then to scrape the powder.
Towards the centre.
With the flat of a small wooden spatula.
Then.
.
.
Returns to grinding.
Outside the shattered window.
She can hear.
Almost nothing of the winter afternoon.
Beyond this soft settling of snow.
From a roof.
Somewhere nearby.
The circles of the grinding stone continue.
Each one much like the one before it.
Her wrist and forearm.
Have long since learned the exact way to press.
Neither so light that the mineral resists.
Gnaw so heavy that her arms tired.
Before the color is ready.
Want that powder has grown fine enough.
She brushes a thin stroke.
Onto a small pottery shard kept for testing.
Watching.
How the color sits.
In the brazier warm light.
Not yet deep enough.
She returns to grinding.
The red dust growing steadily finer.
Beneath her patient's suckling.
The brazier coals glow a little brighter.
As a small breath of winter air.
Find its way.
Beneath the door.
Then.
.
.
Settle back.
Into their steady warmth.
She tests the powder again.
And.
.
.
This time is satisfied.
Placing the bowl aside to mix with warm binding glue.
Waiting in a smaller dish nearby.
Outside.
The snow has thickened slightly.
The workshop stillness.
Deepening with the hour.
The lacquer.
Has arrived from another imperial workshop.
Thick and dark.
It is this lacquer.
Brush first onto the fired clay.
Done.
Gives the mineral colours.
Something to hold you.
She checks the lacquered surface.
With a light touch of her knuckle.
Ben.
Stirs a small portion of warm binding glue.
With a thin wooden rod.
Folding in the ground cinema.
A little at a time.
Until the mixture turns a deep even red.
The scent of the liquor is rich and resinous.
Soften by the warmth of the breeze here.
Into something almost sweet.
Is set.
She has come to associate more with quiet winter afternoon than with anything else in her memory.
She lifts the brush from its rest and.
.
.
Tends to the waiting row of soldiers along the wall.
The brush itself.
It's a simple thing.
A bundle of.
Fine animal hair.
Bound into a bamboo handle.
Kept always clean and dry between use.
She chooses tonight's figure carefully.
And infantrymen.
His armor plates?
Already smooth and detailed by other hands weeks ago.
He's clean,
Now hard and pure from the clean.
Waiting only for color.
To bring him fully to life.
She begins with the color of his robe.
Drawing the brush in one long even stroke.
Along the fabric's edge.
The red spreading smooth and rich across the surface.
The breeze here.
Throws a warm low light across the workshop.
Catching faintly on the white collar.
As it settles into the clay.
The brush.
Never hurried.
Never press too hard.
Against the sufferings beneath it.
Where the collar meets the shoulder.
She slowed down even farther.
Easing the brush around the small folds.
Another craftsman carved into the clay weeks before.
Careful not to let the color pool too thickly in the hollows.
For the armor plates.
She tends to the rich green mineral.
Already ground fine and waiting in its own small bowl from the previous day walk.
She folds it into a fresh mesh of warm binding glue.
Watching the green.
Deepen and settle.
As she stirs.
A color that reminds her of the time that's from her childhood home.
Snow continues,
It's quiet settling somewhere beyond the shattered window.
And seeing but.
Occasionally hurt.
She dips the brush and begins on the armour.
Each small plate,
Taking on its own careful stroke.
The green.
Catching the breezy glow.
As it dries slowly across the clay.
Row by row.
The plates take on their color.
Small overlapping shapes.
That will once complete.
Cover the soldier's chest.
The way real leather and bronze armor once covered the chest of the living.
The afternoon passed.
In this same rhythm.
Grind.
Test.
Mix.
Paint.
The brazier coals tend only enough to keep their steady glow.
She paused once to warm her hands.
Directly over the cause.
The fine mineral dust.
Still faintly.
Visible on half fingers.
Even after washing.
Red and green into the creases of her skin.
It no longer troubles her.
If anything.
She has come to think of it as.
Quiet proof of the day's war.
Somewhere beyond the closed door.
The workshop yard.
Has gone hush.
And its blanket of snow.
The usual daytime sounds of the workshops.
Muffled into something soft and distant.
She returns to the brush and.
.
.
To the slow,
Careful coloring of the armor before her.
The coals shift once more.
Settling deeper into themselves.
With a soft,
Papery sound.
Bind the time that lie beyond the shutter.
Has begun to dim towards evening.
Three more figures along the wall.
Carry fresh color.
Red collars.
Green armor plates.
The beginnings of a dark glossy sheen.
Where the liquor has started to set.
She puts down her brush and studies the road.
As it now stands.
Checking that.
The color has settled.
Evenly across collars.
Those slight differences appear naturally.
As each batch is mixed by hand.
The Brescia glue.
Has settled.
Into its lowest.
Steady as warmth.
Enough still to keep the workshop comfortable.
Through the last of the afternoon's work.
She covers the remaining lacquer and pigment balms with damp cloth to keep them walkable for tomorrow.
Tomorrow will bring blue pigment.
For the dream.
Along the sleeve.
N,
Perhaps?
If enough of the purple pigment.
Has been prepared by then.
The deep violet.
Reserved for the ribbon at a soldier's waist.
There is no shortage of work waiting and There is no need to rush towards it now.
So the painter rests her hands at last.
Beside the softly glowing breeze here.
Behind her.
The newly-collared soldiers.
Stand quietly.
Along the wall.
The ground pigments rest beneath their damp cloths until morning.
And the small clothes workshop holds its warmth.
Through that deepening winter evening.
At the foot of Manli.
The world we visited tonight grows quiet now.
N.
You can simply rest here.
Comfortable and at ease.
Your mind can relax.
Your body can soften.
If you are already drifting into sleep.
Allow yourself to sink a little deeper.
If you are still awake.
Listen to the quiet.
There is nothing more to do.
Nowhere else to be.
I'll be here whenever you need another peaceful moment like this.
Bye for now.
Rest gently.
And Sleep well.
Good night.
