More than half a century ago, deep within the Tianshan Mountains of Xinjiang, a young shepherd leaned against the sheepfold, keeping watch through the night. He beat on a sheet of metal to ward off wolves while his eyes lifted to the heavy, silent stars above. He wished so deeply to climb past that vast sea of stars and see what lay beyond—but he fell asleep.
In the decades that followed, this ordinary body did countless ordinary jobs: a wandering painter, a dock laborer, walking cargo across a thirty-five-centimeter-wide plank from boat to shore, unloading a full shipment of goods, loading them onto trucks—work originally meant for three men.
“Boss, let me handle it alone.”
“In this case, I can only pay you for two.”
Late at night, the streetlights dimmed. He couldn’t bring himself to spend money on a place to stay—it was the price of two steamed buns, after all. He could already see his two sons eating them.
So he curled up on a stone slab for the night. It was cold. But behind the stars, he saw a fire burning. And that was warm.
Later, he ventured into business, became wealthy—and restless. He longed to return to his childhood dreams, to explore.
Five years on foot—so many mountains climbed—for what? A stubborn dream, a quiet madness—who knows?
Yet even after he had taken up the brush, the old fear for his own safety never truly left him.
Years later, on the Burmese border, amid savage frontier casinos, he’d sit by a roadside stall sharing quiet drinks with small-time arms dealers.
“Old man,” one of them laughed, lifting a small pistol, “forget painting—start playing with guns.” He tossed it over. “It’s yours.”
Those large, dark feet —he still remembers them.
Amid chaos, he looked toward the sacred.
Giovanni, Bach—saints. Dante, Sima Qian—saints.
He was once obsessed with photography, documenting vanishing agricultural civilizations in remote ethnic regions. He was also obsessed with architecture, chasing a trace of divinity.
Twice, under the weight of power and shame, he gave up the right to stand and bleed for his dignity—choosing instead to live on in humiliation.
As a young man, he didn’t understand Sima Qian. When he finally did, the tears came in torrents.
“If Sima Qian had not suffered castration, there would have been no Records of the Grand Historian—every word hits like a hammer.”
Wu Xunmu, stripped of all self-respect, could only retrieve a few scattered fragments of himself—between the canvas, and those endless sheets of watercolor and ink-stained paper.
During his years of painting, he could never forget the small wolf that followed him in the depths of the Tianshan Mountains—always there, always watching, haunting the edges of his mind. In the dead of night, a ewe gave birth to a lamb, which spun in circles, as if trying to find its own missing head.
And Wu Xunmu, to this day, does not know where his own head was born.
As a road worker building the Karakoram Highway in Kashmir, he never knew whether he’d return from work with all his limbs intact. At day’s end, others rushed back to camp to wash away the dust and danger. But he often lingered at the foot of the glacier—unwilling to leave. Dusk, even in that brutal landscape, cast a beauty he refused to ignore. Especially in spring, when thousands of streams wove slowly through seas of purple-red blossoms, flowing into the Hunza River.
He could never forget the stars overhead when he stood night watch in the pasture. They pulsed with life, with something ancient and alive. Surely, those stars are wiser, kinder than we humans?
And so I began the “Whispers from the Ancient Dream” series—where everyone was so pure, so free of calculation, so far from worldly gain.
Then came the “Lore” series, echoing the myths whispered from tongue to tongue.
Then came the “War & Heaven” series—born of grief for young lives lost or fading in war, lives that deserved what little beauty the world could offer.
After that, the “Beings from Beyond” series emerged—a hallucination of civilizations beyond our own.
Then followed the “Beyond the Realm” series, chasing that elusive “unknown” beyond the edge of the planetary mind.
And ultimately came the question of the “Tunnels of Time”—how thin, how fragile, is all we think we know.
The birth of life—mystery.
The age of savagery—mystery.
Early religion, agrarian civilization, tribal migrations—mystery.
So came the Epics of Homer, the Records of the Grand Historian, and oral traditions. A fragile body, daring to dream of recording the epic history of civilization—through images.
And so, over twenty years, with meager means and reverence, he completed nine multi-panel works (Title: “Tunnels of Time,” material: oil on canvas, seven connected panels, total height: 3.2 meters, width: 9.2 meters).
When the work was done, a moon rose—passed through the buildings out front, slipped through the iron bars at the window, and broke apart. The largest fragment took the shape of a wolf’s head, fangs bared, gnawing at the bars.
All is poetic. All is real.
Burdened by costs, tangled in relationships, even paint has gotten more expensive. In the abandoned factory, sweat poured like rain, mosquitoes swarmed like clouds. “A fucking slap on the cock...”
For decades, this man had never seen anyone paint. “So where is his teacher?”
Well then—
The tender buds on clumps of red willows along the ox-cart trail across the Gobi—teacher
The glacier stream winding through the mountains of Kashmir—teacher
The high-minded attacks on my work by two big-shot art authorities—teacher
Under power, beneath shame and insult—when he had no choice but to bow his head—teacher
……
He longs for a peaceful world, where people are innocent, free from schemes, and not so full of conflict.
Art is the scarred soul of humankind, reaching back for a dream once dreamt in childhood.
Wu Xunmu
a shepherd,
a cart driver,
a farmer,
a road builder,
a barefooted wanderer,
a seeker who journeyed first through the body, then drifted into the exile of the spirit.
半个多世纪前，新疆天山深处，有个年轻牧人靠在羊栏边守夜。他一面敲铁皮吓唬狼，一面仰看繁星沉重，他多想翻过那片群星，去看看不知道，可是他睡着了。
以后的数十年里，这个平庸的身体，做过太多的平庸事：流浪油漆工，码头搬运工，三十五公分木板，一整船货，背上卡车，三个人的活计，每人五毛。
“老板，你让我一个人干吧。”
“那就一元钱。”
夜深了，街边灯光昏暗，还是舍不得五分钱旅社费，那可是两只肉包子的钱呢。他已经看见了两个儿子正在吃了。
找个石台缩卷过夜。冷，他看见群星后面有团火，暖和了。
他后来做过好多生意，富起来了，不安份了。他想回到童年梦里去，去探险。
这徒步五年间，爬那么多山干嘛？执迷：不知道……
即使在提笔作画期，依然安全控惧症。
缅甸边境，那一片片蛮荒地赌场，地摊边与小军火商小酒。
“老爷子，别玩画了，玩枪吧。”顺手一把小手枪，“送你了。”
那双又大又黑的脚。
乔瓦尼，巴赫……，圣者；但丁，司马迁……，圣者。
他曾执迷摄影，民族地区，些许记录了那些已逝的农耕文明；也一度执迷于建筑，追逐那份：“神性”。
更曾两次于权势威压羞耻下，放弃三尺血溅地。少年不懂司马迁，读懂已是泪千行。
“司马迁如无宫刑，断无《史记》，字字如锤”。吴训木已无自尊，仅能于画布，一片片白纸间找回些许。
创作期，他始终忘不掉天山深处那头时时跟随的小狼，让他惊惧，幻觉。夜深时，母羊产下的那只小羊，在原地打转，似在找回自己的羊头。可吴训木至今仍不知自己的头颅生在何处？
克什米尔筑路工，并不知今日出工，是否能四支齐全回到营地。收工了，个个赶回营地洗脚。冰川脚下，黄昏时最美，我舍不得它们。尤其春天了，万仟条小溪，在成片紫红色花海间，慢慢流至洪扎河。
创作期，他始终忘不掉牧区守夜时的星空，他们那么生机，那么生命，他们应该比我们人类更聪明，更善良吧！
于是：我便有了《远古童话》系列作品，人人那么天纯，少心记，远功利；
于是便有了《传说》系列作品，那些口口相传的神话；
于是便有了《战争，天国》系列作品，那是对战争中已逝的，正在消失的年青生命，他们本该拥有自己不多的美好；
于是便有了《界外客》系列作品，那是对界外文明的幻觉；
于是便有了《界外》系列作品，那是在追逐我们地球天体之外的 “不知道”；
于是更有了对《时空隧道》的追问——我们人类已知的，是那么单薄。
生命诞生，迷；
蛮荒年代，迷；
早期原始宗教、农耕文明、民族迁徙，迷。
有了《荷马史诗》《史记》，有了口传文明。一个弱小躯体，竟幻想将浩如烟海的文明史诗，以图解方式记录。
于是，他近二十年以微薄，敬畏心完成了九套联组。（注：作品名：时空隧道，材质：布面油画，尺寸：七联，通高：三米二，宽：九米二）
活计干完了。这时，一轮月亮，穿过房前大楼，穿过窗前铁栏杆，支离破碎．最大一片呈狼头状，狼嘴龇咧，在嘶咬铁栏。
一切皆诗性，一切皆具体。
苦于各项开支，苦于人际纠结，苦于颜料又涨价了。废弃工厂里，汗如雨，蚊子如云。鸡巴上一巴掌……
几十年了，这个人从未见过任何人画画，他老师在哪？
是啊！
荒漠里吆车，丛丛红柳上的小芽——老师；
克什米尔冰川间的小溪——老师；
两位画界权威大佬对我作品的高明攻击——老师；
在权势羞耻漫骂下无奈低头——老师。
他是那么渴望，有个平和社会，人人皆天纯，少心计，没那么些争斗。
艺术，那是历经沧桑的人类，在感受一丝童年梦境。
吴训木
一个牧羊人；
一个马车夫；
一个农夫；
一个克什米尔冰川上的筑路工；
一个在水面木板上背货的码头工；
一个暴足探险者；
一个从肉体游荡转入精神漂泊的行者。