On my 17th birthday, I received a box with an Asian green and gold, stitched pattern. I opened the fragile box and contained inside was a quill and two vials of jet black ink from an uncle who had recently been to China. He told me he found it in a remote village he was visiting. He entered a shop filled with both oddities, antiques and tools. The owner of the store was a short, stocky man with a large scar on his right check. His wife was stitching a scarf next to the fireplace which was small and not very warm. The instant my uncle entered the shop, he knew the owner was not going to let him leave without purchasing something. As he searched the store this small box caught his eye. The owner told him Buddhist monks spent their whole lives mastering the art of creating a text in perfect balance and beauty.

He said to me as I looked at this set, “If monks spend their life mastering the art of scripting words down how much more do we need to master the act of what words to put down.”

Sometimes I feel calligraphy transforms the words themselves into some new language of magic almost as if the look of the words themselves have more meaning then the actual words themselves. Every stroke seems to float on the page with such elegance that you could add a long, French cigarette and a fur coat on it and call it “Mademoiselle.” When using the fresh, black ink with such careful, studied strokes the writer becomes a painter and the story a picture.

It is a shame calligraphy is a lost art. We type keys of perfectly crafted letters but idea of not only putting thoughts down but the idea that art and words are synonymous is something to ponder or perhaps pen in calligraphy.