Calligraphy brush and rice paper

At that time, I was in Beijing, attending a university course on teaching Chinese to foreigners. In a modest market stall, I came across this brush. It was not particularly striking, yet I was drawn to its simple and unassuming appearance. It carried a quiet dignity that mirrored how I felt as a student, full of potential, yet still unformed.

Calligraphy is not a subject formally studied at university. Yet, because it preserves traditional and archaic forms of Chinese characters, it is closely connected to the study of the language’s origins. For this reason, it became a natural stimulus for my studies. I tried to practice, but in the end, between coursework and exams, I never had much time to devote to it.

When I moved to Italy, to Turin to be precise, to work as a Chinese teacher, I brought the brush with me. For me, it was not just a tool, but a fragment of my home soil. I never really used it, yet I had grown deeply attached to it. It stayed with me when I later moved to Milan. Even as my career gradually shifted away from teaching, the brush remained.

A year ago, I took calligraphy lessons with a Chinese teacher, and the rice paper I submitted is one of the exercises I was assigned. Today, however, the brush has taken on a new purpose. I am now using it to teach my son the Chinese language.

My son was born in Milan and speaks both Chinese and Italian fluently, but I want him to learn to write Chinese from an early age. It is also important for him to understand where I come from and to remain connected to his roots. I am no longer simply a migrant holding onto a relic. I am a mother planting a forest.