認識華清和·了解道教文化的內涵和美學價值Knowing Hua Qinghe · Understanding the Cultural Meaning and Aesthetic Value of Taoism
China’s Beethoven · Blind Musician AbingKnowing Hua Qinghe · Understanding the Cultural Meaning and Aesthetic Value of Taoism
China’s Beethoven · Blind Musician Abing認識華清和·了解道教文化的內涵和美學價值
中國的貝多芬·瞎子阿炳

Blind Abing’s creation of The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring, an immortal masterpiece of world-class artistic stature, did not arise out of nowhere. It was inseparable from the rigorous—at times almost brutally demanding—education and training he received from his father, Hua Qinghe.

As the old saying goes, “A great teacher produces an outstanding student.” If a musician is capable of creating a work that reaches the heights of world art, then the teacher who laid the foundations of his culture and musicianship could not have been an ordinary man.

Today, people everywhere praise and celebrate Abing. Yet few pause to ask a fundamental question: without ever receiving an education at a modern conservatory, how did Abing acquire such immense artistic power? What enabled him to create a musical summit like The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring?

To answer that question, we must speak of his father, Hua Qinghe.

Hua Qinghe was the presiding Taoist priest of the Leizun Hall at Dongxu Temple in Wuxi. He was deeply versed in Taoist music and especially accomplished on the pipa, earning the sobriquet “Iron-Hand Pipa.” He was not merely a Taoist priest, but also a man of traditional culture endowed with profound knowledge of Taoism, superb musical technique, and extensive experience in ritual practice.

When Hua Qinghe is mentioned, people often remember only the story of his love for Wu Afen, the young second daughter-in-law of the Qin family, and the birth of their son, Abing. They overlook another essential part of his identity: he was Abing’s first teacher—the man who transmitted to him Taoist culture, the music of Jiangnan, and the performance techniques of several musical instruments.

Without Hua Qinghe’s profound cultivation in Taoist culture and music, Abing could never have received such rigorous and comprehensive training during his childhood. Without that early accumulation, it would have been exceedingly difficult for him, after losing his sight and being cast into a life of hardship on the streets, to create music of such extraordinary height and depth.

It is therefore necessary for us to rediscover Hua Qinghe. It is equally necessary to approach the meaning and aesthetic value of Chinese Taoist culture through the cultural world in which he lived.

Blind Abing’s creation of The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring, an immortal masterpiece of world-class artistic stature, did not arise out of nowhere. It was inseparable from the rigorous—at times almost brutally demanding—education and training he received from his father, Hua Qinghe.

As the old saying goes, “A great teacher produces an outstanding student.” If a musician is capable of creating a work that reaches the heights of world art, then the teacher who laid the foundations of his culture and musicianship could not have been an ordinary man.

Today, people everywhere praise and celebrate Abing. Yet few pause to ask a fundamental question: without ever receiving an education at a modern conservatory, how did Abing acquire such immense artistic power? What enabled him to create a musical summit like The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring?

To answer that question, we must speak of his father, Hua Qinghe.

Hua Qinghe was the presiding Taoist priest of the Leizun Hall at Dongxu Temple in Wuxi. He was deeply versed in Taoist music and especially accomplished on the pipa, earning the sobriquet “Iron-Hand Pipa.” He was not merely a Taoist priest, but also a man of traditional culture endowed with profound knowledge of Taoism, superb musical technique, and extensive experience in ritual practice.

When Hua Qinghe is mentioned, people often remember only the story of his love for Wu Afen, the young second daughter-in-law of the Qin family, and the birth of their son, Abing. They overlook another essential part of his identity: he was Abing’s first teacher—the man who transmitted to him Taoist culture, the music of Jiangnan, and the performance techniques of several musical instruments.

Without Hua Qinghe’s profound cultivation in Taoist culture and music, Abing could never have received such rigorous and comprehensive training during his childhood. Without that early accumulation, it would have been exceedingly difficult for him, after losing his sight and being cast into a life of hardship on the streets, to create music of such extraordinary height and depth.

It is therefore necessary for us to rediscover Hua Qinghe. It is equally necessary to approach the meaning and aesthetic value of Chinese Taoist culture through the cultural world in which he lived.

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For a long time, whenever Taoism has been mentioned—particularly its rituals of commending, delivering, and guiding the souls of the deceased—some people have reflexively dismissed everything under the label of “feudal superstition.” Such simplistic and one-sided rejection often erases the literary, musical, ceremonial, choreographic, calligraphic, and folk-art traditions that have been handed down for thousands of years.

It was while conducting a rite of deliverance for the Qin family’s deceased second son that Hua Qinghe met his young widow, Wu Afen. That ceremony not only became the point at which their destinies first converged; it also offers us a glimpse into the Taoist cultural world in which Hua Qinghe lived.

Viewed from the perspectives of cultural studies and aesthetics, an orthodox Taoist ritual is not merely an activity rooted in mystical belief. It is also an integrated cultural form that brings together sacred texts, music, ritual proclamation, ceremonial movement, altar design, and folk craftsmanship.

If we temporarily set aside disputes over its religious function and consider only its artistic form, it resembles a theater in motion. It contains instrumental music, chanting, spoken proclamation, ritualized bodily movement, and a visual space created jointly by light, fire, sacred implements, and the altar itself.

Through music, it gives expression to the Way; through art, it gives refuge to human feeling. In name, the ceremony is conducted for the dead. In reality, it also consoles those who remain alive.

In Taoist ritual, the central figure who presides over the ceremony and coordinates its chants, movements, and altar procedures is commonly known as the gaogong fashi, or High Ritual Master.

A High Ritual Master capable of presiding over an important ceremony does far more than recite scriptures. He ordinarily undergoes years of study and training, mastering Taoist classics, ritual procedures, the melodies and prosody of Taoist chant, the proclamation of petitions, ceremonial footwork and bodily forms, and the use of numerous sacred implements. This constitutes a form of religious cultivation, but it is also a complex and complete system of traditional cultural education.

Existing historical records do not state clearly whether Hua Qinghe received the complete lineage training of a High Ritual Master. We therefore cannot simply declare that he was one. Yet as the presiding Taoist priest of Leizun Hall, a leader of important ceremonies, and a master of Taoist music renowned as the “Iron-Hand Pipa,” he inhabited precisely such a cultural world—a world in which scripture, music, ritual, and performing art were interwoven.

Only by understanding that world can we understand that what Abing received from his father was far more than instruction in the techniques of several musical instruments.

First, presiding over an important ritual requires strong vocal gifts, as well as the ability to chant, proclaim sacred texts, and command the entire ceremonial space.

The scriptures used in Taoist ritual are not ordinarily read aloud in the flat manner of an everyday text. They are chanted, word by word and line by line, according to distinctive Taoist melodies and rhythmic patterns.

The presiding ritualist must possess an excellent voice and refined musicianship. In an age without microphones, his voice had to be powerful and penetrating. His pitch, rhythm, and emotional expression also had to be precise. He needed to lead the chanting of scripture, proclaim written petitions, and guide the other Taoist participants through changes of pace, rhythm, and emotional tone as the ceremony moved from one stage to another.

A slow passage might be mournful and lingering, expressing grief and invocation. A rapid passage might become tense and urgent, propelling the ritual toward its climax. When a petition was proclaimed, the voice had to become solemn, the diction lucid, and the delivery sufficiently compelling to move the hearts of those present.

This integration of singing, instrumental performance, and spoken proclamation has much in common with the stagecraft required of modern opera singers and dramatic actors.

Second, the presiding ritualist must master disciplined footwork, bodily forms, and a ritual language of physical movement.

In ceremonies such as pacing the celestial pattern, purifying the altar, and invoking the deities, the presiding ritualist must move according to prescribed directions, steps, and rhythms, coordinating his actions with ritual implements such as a ceremonial sword or command tablet.

The precise forms of these ceremonies vary greatly among Taoist schools, regions, and historical periods. In some areas, ritual practice has also absorbed elements of martial arts, dance, and traditional theater, giving the ceremony a powerful visual presence.

Wearing ceremonial robes embroidered with cloud patterns, cranes, or images of divine beings, the ritualist advances, turns, steps, and brandishes his sword to the accompaniment of gongs, drums, cymbals, wind instruments, and strings. Every direction, every movement, and every pause carries a corresponding ritual meaning.

This is not ordinary dance. It is a bodily language endowed with religious symbolism, one that demands solemnity, precision, stability, and rhythmic discipline.

Third, the presiding ritualist must possess a profound cultivation in traditional Chinese culture.

In ancient times, Taoist priests of high attainment often studied traditional classics such as the Tao Te Ching and the Book of Changes. They were expected to understand yin and yang, the Five Phases, astronomy and the calendar, Taoist rites of offering and purification, and the principles of music. Some were also highly accomplished in poetry, prose, calligraphy, and the composition of parallel prose.

The green petitions and memorials used in Taoist ceremonies served such purposes as making ritual announcements, presenting supplications, and commending the souls of the deceased. Their composition required a certain command of literary form, classical allusion, prosody, and calligraphic presentation. Throughout history, some celebrated men of letters also participated in composing these ceremonial texts. This demonstrates that the literary tradition of Taoist ritual is itself a distinctive part of Chinese classical literature.

Fourth, the presiding ritualist must possess extraordinary powers of mental concentration.

To an outside observer, the ritualist is chanting, proclaiming texts, performing ceremonial steps, and manipulating sacred implements. Within Taoist practice, however, he must simultaneously undertake an inner spiritual activity known as cunxiang—focused visualization.

In a state of intense concentration, the ritualist follows the requirements of Taoist belief and ceremonial practice, inwardly envisioning the descent of divine beings into the ritual space, the circulation of vital energy, and the communion between himself and the sacred world.

He must therefore attend at once to melody, rhythm, scripture, bodily movement, sacred implements, his position within the altar space, and the images unfolding within his mind. Without the memory, self-command, and spiritual concentration developed through years of training, it would be exceedingly difficult to complete a ceremony of such complexity.

It is now difficult to establish, one by one, precisely which of these rituals Hua Qinghe mastered. What can be said with confidence is that, as the presiding Taoist priest of Leizun Hall and a master of Taoist music, the training he received could not have been limited to ordinary folk instrumental performance. It must have been a comprehensive education in which music, scripture, rhythm, ritual, and spiritual cultivation were closely joined.

This was also one of the principal reasons Hua Qinghe was able to give Abing such a profound musical foundation.

The specific procedures and forms of Taoist deliverance rituals vary greatly among different schools, regions, and historical periods. What follows is a cultural overview drawn from rites of commending the dead, deliverance, ritual transformation, food offering, and the symbolic breaking of the prisons of the underworld as they have survived in different regions. It should not be understood as the fixed program of every ceremony conducted at Leizun Hall in Wuxi during the late Qing dynasty and early Republican era.

In its broad structure, a relatively complete ritual for the deceased often follows a progression through the opening of the altar, invocation, commendation of the departed, release from suffering, and final farewell.

【Opening the Altar and Invoking the Sages】: The ceremony begins. Musicians sound the pipes, flutes, drums, and cymbals. Through Taoist chant and solemn proclamation, the presiding ritualist announces the opening of the rite and establishes an atmosphere of gravity and reverence throughout the altar space.

【Summoning and Bathing the Soul】: In chants that are gentle, unhurried, and mournful, the ritualist guides the soul of the deceased to the place of mourning and symbolically bathes and clothes it. Although this stage is religious in character, it also embodies the final care and enduring attachment of the living toward the departed.

【Reciting Scripture and Performing Repentance】: The presiding ritualist leads the chant, and the other Taoists respond. Through the alternating currents of scripture and music, they express repentance, prayer, and the wish to commend the deceased. The call of the leader and the answering chorus create a layered space of sound.

【Breaking the Prisons and Delivering the Dead】: In the ritual traditions of certain regions, the ceremony now enters a strongly rhythmic climax. With sacred implements and ceremonial footwork, the ritualist symbolically breaks through the barriers that confine the departed soul and delivers it from suffering. The dense rhythms of gongs, drums, and cymbals fill the entire altar space with intense dramatic force.

【Offering Food to the Wandering Spirits】: Water, rice, incense, lamps, and other offerings symbolically convey nourishment and compassion to wandering and forsaken souls. This stage expresses the Taoist ideal of showing mercy toward all forms of life and bringing relief to spirits in darkness.

【Thanking the Altar and Bidding Farewell to the Deities】: As the ceremony draws to its close, the ritualist gives thanks at the altar, bids farewell to the divine beings, and burns written petitions and certain paper offerings. Amid firelight and music, the emotional movement of the ceremony passes from sorrow and supplication to farewell, and the rite is declared complete.

From an artistic perspective, this is a multidimensional performance in which time and space converge. Music governs emotion; scripture forms the narrative; movement establishes order; the altar and firelight create the surrounding space; and the bereaved family and assembled witnesses participate in the experience together.

This was the artistic environment that surrounded Abing from childhood—an environment formed jointly by music, scriptural chant, rhythm, emotion, and ritual.

That he later became capable of creating, with a single erhu, a musical world so profound, complete, and charged with dramatic force was clearly inseparable from his early training in Taoist music and the experiences of his childhood.

Taoist rituals for the dead have endured for a thousand years not only because of human imaginings about the world of spirits, but also because, through the combined power of religion and art, they console the living, draw families together, and help people confront death.

In name, the ceremony is performed for the dead. In reality, it also brings comfort to the living.

When a loved one dies suddenly, the family is often plunged into profound psychological trauma. The mournful, lingering chants and instrumental music of the ceremony’s first half provide an emotional space recognized and shared by both family and community. Within that space, people are permitted to weep, to remember, and to release the grief long suppressed within their hearts.

Through a sequence of symbolic acts, the deliverance, offerings, and farewell of the latter half create a consoling image for the bereaved: their loved one has left suffering behind, has found peace, and is journeying toward another world.

From the perspective of modern psychology, this symbolic farewell and emotional release share certain principles with grief counseling, particularly its efforts to help the living complete the act of saying goodbye and restore order to their lives.

Such ritual is not modern clinical psychotherapy. Yet throughout the long centuries of traditional society, it performed a cultural function: consoling wounded hearts, guiding sorrow toward release, and helping people recover the courage to live.

Taoist music and ritual combine instrumental music, vocal performance, spoken proclamation, ceremonial movement, and sacred space into an integrated art form. Together, they resemble a religious symphony within the traditions of Chinese culture.

The Taoist music of Wuxi, in particular, has a long history. It inherits the musical traditions of ancient Chinese Taoism while also absorbing the finest elements of Jiangnan folk instrumental music, regional opera, and local musical culture. In doing so, it has preserved a rich inheritance from the musical life of ancient China. Today, Wuxi Taoist music has been inscribed on China’s national list of representative intangible cultural heritage.

In traditional ceremonies, the musicians positioned behind the ritual space and the presiding ritualist often share an intuitive understanding developed through years of collaboration. They coordinate their playing according to the progress of the ceremony, the vocal melody, the ritualist’s gestures, and the rhythms of the sacred implements. Within the established forms, they also preserve a certain freedom for improvisation.

This was the kind of living musical education Abing received from childhood.

What he learned was not merely how to perform the notes written on a page. He learned how to observe the entire gathering, how to sense the emotions of those present, and how to make music flow in response to the changing movement of the ritual and the human heart.

Chinese traditional culture teaches people to “attend carefully to the final rites and remember those who came before.”

Taoist rituals for the dead bring together the Confucian emphasis on filial devotion, family, and remembrance with Taoist visions of life and death, divine beings, and transcendence. In the solemnity of the ceremony, a family mourns the departed together, reaffirms the emotional bonds among its members, and passes to the next generation the values of gratitude, reverence, and a responsible regard for life.

This is one cultural expression of the complementary relationship between Confucianism and Taoism. It was also one of the ways in which traditional society sustained the emotional bonds of the family and its ethical order.

Superstition is blind fear and blind obedience. Culture, by contrast, is humanity’s endeavor, when confronted by the mystery and pain of death, to draw upon beautiful literature, moving music, solemn ceremony, and exquisite craftsmanship—and with them to place around the coldness of death a garment of warmth, sanctity, and dignity.

When we cast aside historical prejudice and reconsider Chinese Taoist ritual with an objective and aesthetic eye, we begin to see that the swirling ceremonial robes, the mournful Taoist chants, the impassioned gongs and drums, the sorrowful winds and strings, and the embers rising into the darkness of night are all profound enactments of the Chinese people’s understanding of life, death, time, filial devotion, and beauty through the long passage of history.

We need not accept every religious explanation contained within these traditions, nor must we claim that every traditional ritual is scientific. But we cannot deny the literary, musical, ethical, folkloric, and aesthetic values they embody merely because they also contain faith and myth.

To dismiss all of this with the simple label “feudal superstition” is not science. It is another form of ignorance.

Hua Qinghe, the father of Hua Yanjun, was the presiding Taoist priest of Leizun Hall who lived and worked within this cultural world.

He was capable of leading religious ceremonies, was deeply versed in Taoist music, was renowned for his mastery of the pipa, and possessed a fine voice and profound cultivation in traditional Chinese culture. This helps explain, from one essential perspective, why Hua Yanjun could leave the Taoist temple, endure blindness and the hardship of performing on the streets, and still become an immortal master of Chinese folk music.

What Hua Qinghe transmitted to Abing was not merely an erhu, a drum, a flute, or a collection of pipa fingering techniques. It was an entire spiritual world composed of music, scripture, ideas about life and death, the rhythms of ritual, and the emotions of Jiangnan folk culture.

While doing all he could to compensate for the fatherly love he was unable to give openly, Hua Qinghe also passed on, almost without reservation, the abilities he had spent so many years acquiring—to a child who could not publicly call him Father.

Later, Abing left the Taoist temple. He lost his sight, drifted onto the streets, and for a time even descended into dissipation. Yet the cultural and musical seeds planted by his father during those early years did not disappear. That world remained hidden deep within his blood, his muscles, and his memory.

The mournful Taoist chants of the ceremonies, the graceful turns of Jiangnan silk-and-bamboo music, the rise and fall of the drumbeats, the ringing power of the pipa, compassion for the dead, endurance in the face of suffering, and the Taoist understanding of life, nature, and transcendence—all left indelible traces within him.

When the suffering of his life finally found an outlet in music, The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring flowed from his strings.

Therefore, to understand Abing truly, we must first come to know Hua Qinghe. And to understand The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring truly, we must also understand the Taoist culture and musical traditions of Wuxi in which Abing spent his early life.

How, then, did this master of Taoist music and father of Hua Yanjun train and educate his son? What cultural and musical foundations did he lay for him?

That will be the subject of our next essay.

(To be continued)