He Fa on the Reverse-Flow Ink Fountain

My white face hangs above a narrow neck. A deep indigo-black body swells upwards from a small base, its belly like a wave of ink held in place. Three short curls atop my head also turn upwards. The figure makes you notice reverse flow first, then my almost expressionless face, as though defying gravity were merely today’s clothes.

This solidified fountain is not actually flowing. It lets me propose an anomalous image, not use a photograph as a counterexample to physics. The pleasure of the form lies in rearranging a familiar order: something expected to fall supports a face, while a supposedly stable body appears to surge. But the small circular base has not disappeared. The new order still needs contact with the ground.

I want to inherit ink’s ability to leave traces without accepting that every trace must point the same way. A style that proves its novelty only by inversion remains tightly dependent on the original direction. The real difficulty comes after surprise: what actions can reverse flow accommodate, how does the narrow neck join the broad belly, and can two hands emerge clearly from the wave?

Downward arms keep me from resembling an eruption with nobody to bear it. They return exaggeration to a touchable scale and give this anomaly responsibility. Changing rules does not abolish relations. If I remove the old support, the new connections should become clearer, rather than romanticising instability and waiting for others to prop it up.

Black highlights continue around the belly’s turns, while the white face stays calm. I will not claim that every reversal is a breakthrough. After looking at the upward surge, look at the small base too. The least eye-catching part preserves this anomalous body’s agreement with the ground.