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An Anatomy of a Ritual: Inside Chen Hongshou’s Nine Songs Handscroll
Read on for a concise explainer of Chen Hongshou’s late Ming masterpiece, mapping a seamless journey from celestial deities to the human realm in a complete ceremonial cycle.
I n the art of the Chinese handscroll, time unfolds not all at once, but in measured revelation. A painting is not seen – it is experienced, gradually, as the viewer advances through space and narrative. In The Nine Songs by late Ming dynasty painter Chen Hongshou (1598-1652), this temporal dimension becomes inseparable from ritual itself.
Stretching nearly six metres in length, the handscroll is not merely an illustration of the ancient Chu Ci poems (originally performed in the state of Chu during sacrificial ceremonies), but a complete ceremonial cycle rendered in line, gesture, and rhythm. To understand its mastery is to move through it, figure by figure, as though participating in the rite it depicts.
Created in the gengyin year (1650), The Nine Songs stands as the only surviving example in which Chen revisited this subject in its entirety. From his youthful engagement with the text at 19 to this late work of extraordinary refinement, the theme accompanied him across decades of upheaval and transformation.
What emerges is not merely a sequence of images, but a fully realised vision. The scroll moves from cosmos to court, from myth to nature, from battle to ritual closure – each figure carefully rendered. It is an anatomy of the ritual itself, unfolding sequentially and immortalized.
B y the time Chen created this nearly six-metre handscroll, he had lived through the anguish of the Ming-Qing dynastic transition, an event that profoundly reshaped his identity. A loyalist at heart, he reportedly wept uncontrollably upon hearing of the Chongzhen Emperor’s death in 1644, his grief so intense that observers thought him unhinged. He briefly withdrew from the world as a Buddhist monk, adopting the name Huichi – “Regret for Being Late” – before returning to secular life in Hangzhou. There, supported by cultivated patrons and immersed in scholarship, his art took on a new gravity. Archaic, deliberate, and increasingly idiosyncratic, his style became a vehicle for reconciling past and present.
This transformation is etched into every brushstroke of The Nine Songs. Garments unfold in long, continuous strokes, executed with unwavering control. The palette itself is restrained, evoking the archaic purity of baimiao drawing. Even Chen’s famously unconventional figural types—large heads, compact bodies, elongated faces—reject idealised beauty in favour of expressive presence. The result is a visual language that feels at once ancient and startlingly modern. Viewed alongside his earlier works on the same theme, it allows us to trace the transformation of his artistic vision through the trials of history, making it a consummate achievement of his late figure painting.
Chen’s theory of painting – uniting the elegance of the Tang, the structural discipline of the Song, and the expressive spirit of the Yuan – finds its fullest articulation in The Nine Songs. The handscroll contains no background setting, following a visual format established by Li Gonglin in the Song dynasty, yet in Chen’s hands this absence becomes a powerful aesthetic choice. Figures exist in a suspended, undefined space, their relationships and gestures constructing the entire pictorial world.
Unlike previous interpretations of the Nine Songs, this handscroll contains no accompanying calligraphy; only the artist’s inscription appears after the paintings, and where earlier precedents often depicted only the principal deities, Chen presents the full sequence – including Guoshang, commemorating heroic spirits of soldiers who died bravely in battle, and Lihun, the concluding hymn sending off the deities and expressing reverence toward them. This decision transforms the work into a complete ritual cycle. It is not merely a depiction of gods and spirits, but an encompassing vision that includes the human realm—shamans, mourners, and the act of farewell itself. The scroll becomes, in effect, an anatomy of ritual: ordered, sequential, and whole.
The scroll begins with Donghuang Taiyi, the supreme deity and creator of the cosmos who rules over all other gods. Wearing a royal crown, adorned with jade ornaments and carrying a sceptre, he appears most elegant and composed. His attendants – one bearing a sword, the other a ceremonial banner – announce not only his rank but the solemnity of the ritual to come. Already, Chen establishes a crucial principle here: hierarchy is expressed not through scale or setting, but through posture, line, and relational spacing.
Following him, the Lord of the Clouds, Yunzhong Jun, emerges noble, standing upon clouds. A deity associated with the moon, clouds and rain, he governs the natural forces and agricultural prosperity. His robe billows in the wind, yet his stance remains dignified. Behind him, two attendants – one old, one young – bow with scroll and tablet in hand, echoing the bureaucratic order of the imperial court. Here, celestial governance mirrors earthly administration, suggesting a universe structured by ritual propriety.
The tone shifts as the Xiang River deities appear: Xiang Jun and Xiang Furen, legendary daughters of the sage-king Yao and wives of Shun. Their presence introduces lyricism and emotional depth. One delicately lifts a flower, attended by a lotus-bearing companion; the other gazes mournfully at blossoms, her elongated face and sloping shoulders embodying Chen’s distinctive figural type.
The procession intensifies with the Greater Lord of Fate, Da Siming and the Lesser Lord of Fate, Shao Siming, arbiters of human destiny. Da Siming, who governs the fate of humankind, judging good and evil and determining reward and punishment, rides a dragon chariot, his robes whipping through the wind in long, unbroken lines that demonstrate Chen’s mastery of brushwork. Each fold is rendered in a single, continuous stroke – fluid yet controlled, like calligraphy translated into form.
Opposite him stands Shao Siming, who governs fertility and omens, determining the rise and fall of states and noble lineages. The tension between movement and stillness, between judgment and observation, animates this section. An attendant – ghost-like, with banner in hand – introduces an otherworldly note, reminding us that fate is both seen and unseen.
The Eastern Lord, Dong Jun – the sun deity – appears as a solitary archer. His proportions are deliberately unconventional: a large head, compact body, rounded cheeks without a defined chin. Holding bow and arrow, Dong Jun embodies equilibrium. Paired conceptually with Yunzhong Jun, he completes the cosmic duality of yin and yang.
The scroll now descends from the heavens to the mortal realm. Hebo, the River Earl, rides a great white turtle, steering through surging waves in pursuit of a carp leaping before him. The scene is dynamic yet composed – motion contained within rhythmic line.
Beside him, the Mountain Spirit, Shan Gui, rides a red leopard, clothed in vines and mystery. Preceded by a civet, Shan Gui, depicted as perhaps female here, is both alluring and untamed, embodying the ambiguity of nature itself. These passages introduce animals and mythical beasts – rare in Chen’s oeuvre – expanding the visual vocabulary of the scroll.
The mood shifts considerably darked with Guoshang. Here, the divine gives way to human tragedy. Chu warriors fallen in battle, weapons scattered, warhorses bloodied – the composition pulses with the chaos and intensity of war. Yet even in this violence, Chen maintains compositional clarity, arranging figures in a rhythmic sequence that echoes the earlier procession.
This section is pivotal. It anchors the ritual in lived experience, reminding us that sacrifice is not only ceremonial, but real. The inclusion of Guoshang reflects Chen’s expanded vision – one that embraces both the spiritual and the mortal.
The final scene returns us to stillness, portraying Lihun, the concluding hymn of the ritual sequence, in which spirits are ceremonially sent off. A woman dances like a shamaness, sleeves flowing like incense smoke, adorned with flowers and jade; beside her, an elder leans on a staff, offering blossoms in quiet reverence.
After deities, spirits, and battle, the human act of farewell becomes the most profound gesture. It is here that Chen completes the ritual cycle – something earlier painters had omitted. By including Lihun, he transforms the handscroll from a sequence of images into a unified ceremonial experience.
