Chapter Eleven: The Skull Thangka

Traditional Xi-style thangka painting places unique emphasis on the use of color, with five main hues—red, black, blue, gold, and silver—applied in bold strokes. Each color corresponds to a different subject matter. Red is often used for stories of the Buddha’s previous incarnations, with a style rich and splendid; black is reserved for guardian deities and wrathful Vajra figures, depicting themes of subduing demons, with gold lines tracing the forms and a solemn, majestic aura; blue is chosen for auspicious subjects like the Joyful Buddha and Vajra of Supreme Bliss, conveying festive prosperity; gold and silver are employed for compositions of noble elegance, their purity and brilliance lending an air of opulence.

Since arriving at Tashilhunpo Monastery, Guan Wen had devoted himself to studying thangka, attempting to deconstruct this ancient art using the modern painting theories he had learned. He had pored over numerous writings by predecessors, observed thangka workshops firsthand, and witnessed the process of creation. Yet, compared to the paintings in this room, everything he had studied and seen was utterly insignificant.

Here, pigments were mixed and splashed freely. Some paintings used a profusion of black to depict human features and bodies, diverging from the traditional representations of Tibetan figures and Buddhist deities. Others employed copious amounts of gold and silver to highlight the grandeur of demons, contrasting their ferocious enormity against the diminished forms of the gods, clearly contradicting the Tibetan Buddhist principle of subduing evil. Yet all these works displayed immense humanity, expressing the full spectrum of good and evil, light and darkness, joy and sorrow, love and hate.

He did not know how much time had passed before he emerged from his chaotic thoughts. The foot he had lifted and the one supporting him were both numb, a sharp pain prickling through his soles.

“Do you understand?” Caidan Dajie stood proudly at the center of the room, his solitary arm behind his back.

“Understand what? What am I supposed to understand?” Guan Wen felt a tightness in his chest, as if altitude sickness were overtaking him—he could hardly breathe, and his temples throbbed with pain.

“I’m talking about the meaning behind these Skeleton Thangka.” Caidan Dajie answered.

Guan Wen withdrew, bending to rub his aching left leg. His heart felt heavy, the ease he’d felt before entering the courtyard completely gone.

“If these paintings were cut out whole, removed along with the walls, and shipped out of Xi, they would fetch a handsome price. Their artistic value rivals that of the world’s most famous masterpieces. Do you know why they possess such soul-shaking power? Because the artist poured their life into them—every stroke burned away a portion of their existence. When a painting was finished, the artist became like the living skeletons found in the niches outside. What you see is their final confession to the world. To reach the same heights, one must be prepared to die with generosity.” Caidan Dajie said.

Guan Wen nodded. “I understand—great works of art are often imbued with the creator’s immense subjective intent. Only then can the brushwork be so forceful and stirring, radiating extraordinary energy.”

Caidan Dajie stroked the wall nearby, his face bleak. “As a painter, you surely know what special materials are required for thangka?”

Guan Wen nodded again. “I do.”

He knew that thangka pigments were generally divided into three categories: mineral, plant, and animal compounds. Mineral pigments formed the base colors, plant pigments were used for gradations from light to dark, and the outlining colors derived from the skin and shells of animals or insects.

“Do you know what pigments were used for all the thangka here?” Caidan Dajie pressed.

Guan Wen crouched, touching a painting closest to him on the ground. It was painted directly onto bluish-grey shale tiles, and a biting chill radiated from his fingertips. The scene showed the Vajra confronting a demon up close, while a woman in Tibetan garb, draped in a white khata, watched from afar.

He touched the khata, and immediately noticed that the artist had not used the usual white mineral pigment, nor was the adjacent yellow made from the customary mineral pigment synthesized from sulfur and arsenic. The base color was a fusion of red and yellow, resembling skin tone, which ordinarily would be made from cinnabar and realgar, but the red was so vivid, so close to the color of real human skin, that he wondered what extraordinary ingredient had been added.

According to centuries of Tibetan thangka tradition, all mineral, plant, and animal pigments harmonize with the land and climate, just like famed Tibetan medicine—bright, durable colors that last a hundred years unchanged.

“I don’t know, but I can see these pigments are very unusual,” Guan Wen answered.

“They are indeed unique—one of a kind,” Caidan Dajie murmured in awe.

Guan Wen suddenly asked, “You’ve changed so much—why?”

Before entering the tree hollow, Caidan Dajie had been gaunt and spiritless, as if a gust of wind could topple him. Now, his eyes burned with vitality, his movements and speech quickened, his whole demeanor exuding the proud aura of a leader.

“I told you—I am liberated,” Caidan Dajie laughed.

“What?” Guan Wen was bewildered.

Caidan Dajie lifted his monk’s robe again, gazing at his right shoulder, his face contorted with both sorrow and wild joy. “I once believed my life would burn like a torch—fiercely ablaze, then quietly reduced to ashes, vanished from this world. Come—I’ll show you a painting, one I made myself.”

He beckoned Guan Wen, who hesitated but tiptoed into the room.

Caidan Dajie entered a chamber on the left, pointing to a small painting on the front wall. His voice trembled: “Look here. This is what I traded an arm for.”

The painting depicted a woman with only half a face. Though only one eye, half her hair, and half a smiling mouth were shown, Guan Wen instantly felt her beauty.

“Truly… it’s too beautiful! Too beautiful!” His admiration spilled forth.

“Is it?” Caidan Dajie stroked the woman’s hair, his tone deep, as if entranced.

“Facing this painting, I… I wish I could burn all my previous works, move here, and paint day and night until I can complete the other half. Master, upon seeing this, I am utterly humbled.” Guan Wen bowed deeply to Caidan Dajie.

Caidan Dajie gazed obsessively at the woman’s eye, then shook his head with a sigh. “This will forever be an unfinished painting. I once thought that if I could paint the dream in my heart, I could let go of all worldly attachments and devote myself fully to the work of a treasure revealer. I painted half a face, lost an arm, and earned today’s outcome. Every fate has its recompense; it’s over. Between her and me, this half-face is all that remains. From today, I, Caidan Dajie, have returned; I am the same as before. The Buddhist lamp in my heart still burns. I will no longer be a secret-keeping treasure revealer, but a guardian in reality, embarking on the great task of demon-suppression.”

He brushed his palm over the painting, and as the dust fell, the woman’s image vanished with it.

Somehow, in the arch of the woman’s brow, Guan Wen glimpsed the shadow of Bao Ling.

The powder swirled in the air, and Guan Wen’s nose itched—he sneezed violently.

In that moment, he noticed something odd about the powder, and asked in shock, “Master, these pigments seem to be derived from the human body… Could they really be made from human bone and flesh?”

The revelation struck him with even greater force.

Caidan Dajie turned and looked at Guan Wen with a gaze of extreme complexity. “You sensed it?”

Guan Wen gave a wry smile. “First, tell me—when you painted this woman, did you use pigments from the human body?”

Ordinary painters, trained in the orthodox tradition, would never encounter the secret of painting with their own flesh and bone. Guan Wen had learned this knowledge from his master, but had never seen or used it himself.

“Yes.” Caidan Dajie’s eyes glowed with obsession, as he bent to scoop up a handful of powder and gently inhaled it.

Guan Wen could not help but gasp, his eyes fixed on Caidan Dajie’s empty right shoulder.

A true thangka master devotes his whole being to the painting before his eyes, free of distraction, mind and soul emptied. To complete the work, he is willing to sacrifice even his life. In the ancient history of thangka in Tibet, thousands of skilled artisans have given their lives for thangka, their final painting known as the “Skeleton Thangka,” whose spiritual and market value is incalculable. As far as he knew, genuine Skeleton Thangka could no longer be found in mainland China; those precious works scattered by war had long been claimed by antique dealers in other countries, passed down through generations. Yet, the collectors do not realize that these priceless paintings carry the soul of the artist, bringing inexplicable misfortune…

“Yes, yes, yes,” Guan Wen sighed three times.

Like treasured swords, ancient jade, and burial gold, Skeleton Thangka are haunted through generations by lingering spirits, possessing a special power that ordinary people cannot withstand, ultimately costing them their lives.

“Every thangka in this room is…” Guan Wen did not finish, for he had already seen the answer in Caidan Dajie’s eyes.

He was a painter himself, once proud of his lifelong pursuit of artistic perfection, but if he were truly required to paint with his own flesh and bone like the thangka masters, he was not sure he could do it.

Thangka is the emblem of Tibetan painting, containing the essence of the Xi tradition. It cannot be summed up in a few paintings or a dozen pigments. Beyond what can be seen, learned, and imitated on the surface, there exists a profound meaning that words cannot explain.

“To this day, I still remember that night…” Caidan Dajie whispered.

From the tree hollow outside, a bird’s cry suddenly sounded.

Caidan Dajie scraped off a chunk of white clay wall the size of an egg with his thumb and flung it behind him. The wall fragment traced a strange arc in the air, shooting toward the right side of the doorway.

“Uh—” A person stumbled in, one hand covering his eye, the other his mouth, bending over as he collapsed.

Guan Wen saw that the man was dressed as a typical tourist, nothing out of the ordinary. But tourists usually stayed in the front part of the monastery, rarely venturing into the tantric courtyard. Oddly, though badly injured, the man never cried out, instead clutching his mouth and enduring the pain in silence.

“He’s merely a thief coveting the secrets of Tashilhunpo Monastery,” Caidan Dajie said. “Ignore him. The weather is about to change, and greater matters await us—come.”

Caidan Dajie crossed another doorway, entering a narrow, sloping passage leading underground.

“Where are we going?” Guan Wen followed.

“This is the critical moment for Tashilhunpo Monastery’s survival. We must act, or our lifetime of cultivation will have been in vain.” Caidan Dajie strode with vigor, moving faster and faster, and Guan Wen could barely keep up.