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One of our talented Chinese artists, Yu Chengyou’s images draw upon natural surroundings, from wildlife to human life, places that, through the simplicity of his style, seem tranquility and uncluttered. His prints offer quite a contrast to the metropolises’ of China; they depict places that bring solace from the maddening crowds and industrialisation of China today. His work promises something better for us, a calmer world to strive for. We’re pleased to share a few images from his current solo printmaking exhibition titled “Clean Journey”, on now through December 25 in Shenzhen, China. Below is the text from the introduction to the exhibition catalogue.

“I had to admire her guts. I dropped to one knee, fumbled in my pocket for my old brass powder charger, freshened the powder in my frizzen, and pulled back the hammer on my 50-caliber flintlock. I took a deep breath and then I drew a bead on her. An instant that felt like an hour passed before I squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell, the powder in the frizzen flashed, startling me even though I was prepared for it, and a heartbeat later, the whole world exploded with the thunder of 90 grains of black powder erupting in fire and blinding acrid smoke from the barrel of my gun, sending a lead ball rocketing toward the doe at a lethal 1,400 feet per second.

In the smoke and the confusion I couldn’t tell if I had hit her. And then I saw that I had. The impact of the bullet had knocked her to the ground, and as the rest of the herd hightailed it over the ridge, she struggled to stand, staggered a few yards and then collapsed again. I had hoped for a clean kill. But I had failed. I knew what had happened—I had flinched when the powder in the pan went off. Instead of hitting her in the heart or lungs, which would have killed her instantly, I had mortally wounded her. Now I would have to finish the job.

I know that must sound like an odd confession coming from an avid deer hunter, a guy who, like thousands of others in my home state of Pennsylvania, spends the better part of the year looking forward to those few short weeks in October and November, and especially to the special flintlock season that begins the day after Christmas, when I can load up my rifle and get lost in the mountains behind my home all alone. But I suspect that if you could wade through their braggadocio and really talk to hunters, many of them would tell you the same

For me, and I suspect for many others like me, the art of hunting is far more profound than taking trophies. It’s about taking responsibility. For my needs. For my family. For the delicate environmental balance of this wounded but recovering part of the country. Biologists estimate there are now 1.6 million deer in Pennsylvania’s woods, far more than when white men first set foot there. I took up deer hunting a decade ago when I realised that this staggeringly large population was decimating many of our forests, forests that after hundreds of years of clear-cutting were at last poised to recover. Thus the responsibility for trying to restore a part of that balance fell to me. And to all the other hunters.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family that always did things the hard way, when I took up hunting, I eschewed all the technological gadgets designed to give modern hunters an extra edge over their prey. I like to believe that there’s something primitive and existential about the art of hunting, and that somehow, stripping the act of hunting to its basics makes it purer.

I wanted a weapon that required more of me, one that demanded all the skill and all the planning that I could muster, a weapon that gave me just one chance to get it right. I made the decision to hunt only with the most basic firearm there is, a muzzleloading black-powder rifle, fired by a piece of flint striking cold steel. There are hundreds of us in the state. In late December, we wander into the woods, usually alone, with our antique weapons and our obsolete notions of what a hunt should be.

But those antique weapons also carry with them an antique sense of responsibility. To kill with a flintlock, you must get close. And because these ancient guns are notoriously balky and inaccurate, there is a very good chance that you’ll miss your target altogether or, worse, that you’ll simply wound the creature and in so doing, inflict greater suffering than is necessary. And so you take every precaution to make sure that your one shot is clean, that it kills quickly and mercifully. And still, sometimes you fail, just as I did that late afternoon in midwinter when I flinched as my gun went off.

I followed the blood trail a few yards and found her. She was still alive. I could see her breath. It was ragged. She looked at me. I loaded my gun, charged thebfrizzen, and pulled the trigger. There was a flash in the pan—and then nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. The sun was sinking behind the ridge. I didn’t have the time or the tools with me to fix the gun—and so I laid my rifle down on the ground, pulled my knife from its sheath, wrapped my arms around the wounded and frightened doe, and…I hate to kill.

But if I’m going to profit by death—and to some degree we all do, as even those who find the very act of eating flesh to be offensive still benefit from the restorative act of responsible hunting in the nation’s wild places—then I believe I also have an obligation to do it in the most honest way possible. It has to cost me something. And it does. I would not be so presumptuous as to suggest that the obligation extends beyond me. But speaking only for myself, it is compelling. It’s a debt I owe the place I’ve chosen to live. And it’s why, if you’re looking for me on the day after Christmas, you’ll find me in the woods of Northeastern Pennsylvania with a flintlock rifle in my hand, and a few gnawing regrets in my heart.

She took me by surprise. Though I had been stalking her through the dense undergrowth for about 40 minutes, I had lost sight of her as the afternoon light began to fade. It was getting late and I was about ready to call it a day when, just as I hit the crest of a shadowy depression in the mountainside, I caught a glimpse of her, a beautiful doe, the matriarch of a small clan that foraged behind her. She saw me, too. Even in the spreading dusk I could see her eyes as she glared at me. She stomped out a warning on the rocky ground.”

Read more about Yu Chengyou and see the prints we have for sale from this artist on the ArtChina UK website.