One of the great gifts of living abroad is the chance to touch local traditions. Last week, here in Suzhou, I attended a Gongbi painting class (工笔)—one of China’s three classic styles, known for its microscopic detail and layered translucence.

What made it special was our teacher: a Chinese artist who teaches in Spain but returned home briefly. Generously, she shared this heritage with us—a true gift.

We painted Suzhou’s own flower—the jasmine, symbol of Jiangsu Province. Fitting, I thought, to learn a centuries-old art form here, where its rhythms feel most alive.

Gongbi is as much about posture as pigment. Our teacher reminded me constantly: "Bǐ shù zhí!" (笔竖直—"Brush vertical!"). My elbow had to float mid-air, the tiny brush perpendicular to the paper—unlike any painting I’d done. When my hand tilted sideways (old habits!), my outlines thickened like ink-stained rope. Steadiness, I learned, begins in the bones.

Then came layered coloring (Fenran 分染). Two brushes in hand: one for pigment, one for water. Simple? Not quite. I juggled them like a novice magician:

• "Is this the water brush or the blue one?"
• "Wait—did I just blend leaf-green into my flower?"
  Our palette was minimalist—black outlines, blues and yellows for leaves, white petals with golden hearts—but the process was symphonic. First, a blue wash on leaves; then yellow-green glazed over it; finally, deeper green for shadow. The jasmine blossoms? White, but with sunny centers painstakingly ringed again in white, then dotted with pollen-fine pistils. Each layer demanded patience I’m still cultivating.

Our teacher shared that masters spend months on a single piece. My own jasmine bloom—born in three hours—leans more "earnest impression" than "botanical accuracy." Yet, in that struggle, I felt the weight of tradition: how this art rewards surrender to slowness.

Beyond brushes, I’ll remember our teacher’s patience as we fumbled—correcting postures, untangling brush identities. Gongbi, I see now, is more than technique; it’s a dialogue between discipline and grace.

Living in Suzhou, you learn that beauty here is layered—like lacquer, like silk, like these pigments built stroke by stroke. The collage above isn’t just my jasmine painting—it’s our class’s story. You’ll see moments: my teacher guiding my brush, the concentration in our postures, and yes, the painting’s journey from outline to layered life. The true art? The shared patience.

Travel opens doors, but living somewhere lets you sit awhile in its rhythms. For one evening, those rhythms flowed through a brush held upright—teaching my hand, and heart, a new kind of stillness.