Jao Tsung-I (1917–2018) was a scholar, painter, calligrapher of mid-twentieth century China. He was a cultural titan and renaissance man who first encapsulated this bitter truth in Chinese art circles: “Dunhuang is in China, but Dunhuang studies belong to Japan.” He turned this grievance into a spiritual summons to go on pilgrimage to recover Dunhuang’s lost soul. His objective was slightly different to that of the scholars that went to “acquire” scriptures and objects, however dubious the means were at the time. But he also wasn’t purely an artist, on a quest to uncover the caves’ vivid azurite blues and cinnabar reds. What he was after was the heart of Dunhuang Buddhism: distilled into a single, unbroken brushline.
The Mogao Caves, carved over 1,600 years from the Sixteen Kingdoms (266–420 CE) to the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368), dazzle the senses with a celestial cosmos of Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and apsaras. Yet their layered pigments often obscure the quieter features that can be found in many of the caves, in particular those carved during the Sui (581–618) and Tang (618–907) dynasties. The masters of this period exhibited particularly disciplined linework, which is the basis for all form in painting. Jao therefore saw past the dazzle: Dunhuang’s soul resided not in color, but in line.
In this article I wish to explore his baimiao (plain-line drawing), which are the subject of a now-concluded exhibition at Jao Tsung-I Petite École at The University of Hong Kong: Inspirations of Dunhuang: Professor Jao Tsung-i’s Line Drawings in the Style of the Tang Dynasty. In these works, he stripped away ornamentation to reveal the essence of Dunhuang magic. Although he famously never became a Buddhist, his art became Dharma practice. Furthermore, his life embodied the humility and quiet devotion of the Buddhist path.
Dunhuang: The line rediscovered
For Jao, line drawings were no mere technique. They were the ink-drawn bridge linking heaven and earth, form and emptiness. He spoke of heaven and humanity in mutual illumination, where art and spirit flow as one. Each stroke participated in an ancient order; each line carried a teaching, not just the visual form. In Buddhist terms, such focused attention was meditation made tangible. When Jao painted a bodhisattva, he did not merely depict but instead became one with the image, his brush moving as his mind settled into stillness.
Jao’s engagement with Dunhuang began with a transformative friendship. In the 1940s, Zhang Daqian (1899–1983)—the legendary Chinese painter—spent two and a half years copying Dunhuang’s murals in full color, bringing the caves to modern China’s attention. But Zhang knew color alone could not capture the art’s true essence. When he met Jao, he recognized a kindred spirit, declaring: “Jao’s baimiao stands alone under heaven.”
Zhang urged Jao to look past the famous murals to the hidden sketches on manuscript reverses. These were almost like sketches; spontaneous, unguarded linework by Tang artisans, preserved by accident. Jao heeded this call. In the 1960s, he travelled to Paris and Tokyo to examine overseas Dunhuang scrolls, studying line drawings dating from the Northern Wei (386–535) to the Song dynasty (960–1279). In 1975, he published Dunhuang Baimiao establishing the field of Dunhuang line study.
Jao forged his own baimiao style, drawing from two giants of Chinese line art: Zhao Mengfu (1254–1322), whose Yuan dynasty work merged calligraphy and painting, and Bada Shanren (1626–1705), the Ming loyalist whose spare, expressive lines channelled Chan awakening. His 12 iconic baimiao works, which consist mainly of Buddhist figures and bird-and-flower motifs, were not copies, but creative re-imaginings. They revealed the Sui-Tang masters’ discipline, devotion, and artistic mastery.
The Heart Sutra: Ink as practice
Jao was a lifelong devotee of the Heart Sutra. From his youth to his final days, Jao copied the 260-character Mahayana scripture daily in calligraphy. It was a daily ritual, and perhaps it was even therapeutic in its own spiritual way. Over six decades, his script evolved: upright and stern in calm times, sinuous and free. He copied the text especially copiously during global disasters like the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami or the 2008 Sichuan earthquake. His brush moved with urgent compassion, a written prayer for all beings: gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svāhā.
The sutra’s core truth is that “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.” His calligraphy’s evolution—from disciplined rigor to a later manner of “liberated” style—could be said to trace the scholar’s spiritual journey. In 2005, on Lantau Island, Jao made a particularly meaningful contribution to Hong Kong’s Buddhist heritage, beside the Tian Tan Buddha. The Path of the Heart Sutra features 38 wooden pillars carved with Jao’s mature calligraphy, arranged in an infinity symbol. Visitors walk among the pillars, circumambulating like a stupa, the sutra revealing itself slowly through movement and time. The wood echoes ancient bamboo slips—Jao’s scholarly passion, now a landscape of Dharma. Here, his calligraphy became the very environment and a literal path.
Chan painting: Line as awakening
In his later career, Jao expanded into Chan painting, lamenting China’s neglect of the tradition while Japan preserved its masters. He revived the Song-Yuan lineage of Liang Kai (c. 1140–c. 1210), Muqi Fachang (c. 1210–c. 1269), and Yu Jian (12th to early 13th century)—artists who used bold, economical strokes to express enlightenment. Jao delved deep into Bada Shanren’s (1626–1705) Chan works, learning how spiritual immediacy could live in every mark.
In 2003, he created a homage to Liang Kai’s Chopping Bamboo and Tearing Sutras, channelling the “Crazy Liang” style while retaining his own voice. These were not imitations but living interpretations—rooted in scholarship while remaining pure in originality. For Buddhists, such paintings are not doctrinal illustrations; they are Dharma retold for an artistic audience. A single stroke, rightly seen, manifests the awakened mind that births the universe.
Jao’s final artistic leap was geographical. Drawing from his expeditions to Dunhuang, Turfan, and the Jade Gate, he proposed a Northwestern School of Chinese painting, capturing Central Asia’s austere beauty. In Grand Canyon of Kucha (2005), he applied Dunhuang brushlines to mountains and deserts, extending Buddhist art beyond iconography and into nature itself.
The line that never ends
Jao Tsung-I’s Buddhist art is a quiet masterpiece of modern times. Across Dunhuang baimiao, Heart Sutra calligraphy, and Chan painting, he revived long-gone techniques as living spiritual practice. His friendship with Zhang Daqian bridged two visions of Dunhuang (color versus line, spectacle versus essence) and united their pursuit of Buddhist art’s meaning.
To stand before a Dunhuang mural is to be swept into a visual, grand opera: senses are overwhelmed and the human spirit stirred by religious splendor. To face Jao’s baimiao is to step into a candlelit cathedral at midnight: unhurried, unadorned, a single cello’s note hanging in the air. The line, stripped of distraction, is like a prayer. In its simplicity, we find the Presence. Before his baimiao bodhisattvas or the Heart Sutra Path pillars, we encounter not the caves’ crowded multitude, but millennia of Buddhist practice, refined through one master’s heart. In each line, we glimpse the Dharma. In each stroke, we find the path.
Jao’s infinite line revives Dunhuang and gives Buddhism its most elegant modern voice.
Related features from BDG
The Unfinished Enlightenment: How India Is Reclaiming Its Buddhist Soul—An Interview with Dr. Richard Dixey
The Keeper of the Buddha’s Teachings: Vairochana Rinpoche, Blending Ancient Lineage with Modern Scholarship
Decrypting the Sky: Yonphula Rinpoche, a Modern-day Lotus-Born Master
Related news reports from BDG
Passing of World-renowned Scholar Jao Tsung-I Mourned
Related blog posts from BDG Tea House
The Heart Sutra Calligraphy of Jao Tsung-I at Sun Museum, Hong Kong
