Lanting Xu draws from Wang Xizhi’s immortal prose, yet refuses to be confined by scrolls or stone inscriptions. She is the breeze between mountains, the unrestrained guest at a timeless gathering—graceful as a slow verse, willful as a wild cursive stroke. The calligraphy upon her garments is not mere ornament, but spirit and spine; between the folds of her dress lie the mists of the south and the boldness of wine. In ancient elegance she forges her edge; in soft poise she conceals her pride.