Transcending Millennia: The faith and craftsmanship in Tibetan Thangka art

My first encounter with a Thangka was in a Tibetan homestay. Hanging on the living room wall, it immediately captivated me — against a lapis lazuli blue background, a Buddha statue outlined in gold exuded solemnity. The warm glow of butter lamps spilled over the fabric, breathing life into the painted world. Later, I learned this art form, known as "mobile murals," has flourished on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau for 1,300 years. Every brushstroke and pattern embodies the beliefs of Tibetan people and the dedication of craftsmen.

In Tibetan, "Thangka" means "cloth painting." It uses cotton, linen, or silk as the base, depicting Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, Dharma protectors, religious stories, or natural totems — a unique artistic form in Tibetan culture. Unlike temple murals fixed to walls, Thangkas are lightweight and portable. Pilgrims and practitioners can carry them everywhere, unfolding them to connect with their faith anytime, anywhere. Hence, they are also called "portable temples."

A legendary tale surrounds Thangka’s origin: During the Tibetan Tubo Dynasty, King Songtsen Gampo, to promote Buddhism, mixed his own nosebleed with mineral pigments to paint a portrait of Palden Lhamo (a protective deity). Though the original work has been lost, the story not only confirms Thangka’s ancient roots but also endows it with a sacred essence — "painting with blood and devotion."

By the 11th century, as Buddhism thrived in Tibet, Thangka art matured. From simple Buddha portraits, it evolved into a comprehensive art integrating painting, embroidery, appliqué, and tapestry. Even "jeweled Thangkas" inlaid with pearls, agates, and corals emerged, becoming treasures collected by nobles and temples. Today, most ancient Thangkas we see in museums like the Tibet Museum and Jokhang Temple date back to the Ming and Qing dynasties. After centuries, their mineral pigments remain vivid, whispering stories of the past.

After exploring Thangkas, what struck me most — beyond their religious significance — was the meticulous craftsmanship. A qualified Thangka takes months or even years to complete, and the pigment preparation alone follows a process of "dialogue with nature."

Thangka pigments are mostly natural. Blue from turquoise, red from cinnabar, yellow from realgar, and green from malachite — these minerals, collected from mountains and rivers, undergo repeated sorting, grinding, precipitation, and drying to become fine pigments. A master artist told me: "Top-quality mineral pigments must be ground so finely they float on water." Gold, meanwhile, is hammered into foil, then dissolved in a special solution to make gold ink. When used for outlining or gilding, it creates dozens of shades of luster on the fabric.

This reverence for natural materials gives Thangkas their "millennium-fade-resistant" trait. Last year, in the Regong Art Village, I visited the studio of "Thangka Master" Qu Zhi. The 70-something artist still adheres to traditional pigment-grinding methods. Pointing to a 20-year-old Thangka, he said: "Look at this blue — made from turquoise from Yushu, Qinghai. It still feels as fresh as the day it was painted." Today, Qu Zhi’s works are collected by museums in China and abroad, introducing Chinese intangible cultural heritage to the world.

The base preparation is equally rigorous. Artists select fine cotton or silk, coat both sides with a mixture of yak hide glue and white stone powder, then polish repeatedly with smooth stones until the surface is as flat as paper and warm to the touch. This process is repeated 5-6 times to lay a "centuries-lasting" foundation — as Tibetans often say: "A Thangka must withstand the test of time, just as faith must endure the trials of years."

Over a millennium, Thangka has developed three major schools, each with distinct characteristics — like dialects reflecting cultural stories from different regions.

Founded in the 16th century by Menla Dondrub Gyatso, the Menri School is the most widespread and influential in Tibet. It is known for neat, fluid lines, bright yet soft colors, and strictly standardized iconography based on The Precious Measurements of Icon Painting. The proportions and expressions of Buddhas are precise to the millimeter. Many murals in the Potala Palace and Norbulingka Palace are works of the Menri School. Its masterpiece, The Life of Sakyamuni, uses light blue and yellow backgrounds with gold outlines — elegant and magnificent, as if narrating Buddhist scriptures.

If the Menri School is the "scholarly style," the Khyentse School is undoubtedly the "martial style." Emerging in western Tibet in the 15th century, it specializes in painting wrathful deities — with flaming manes, eagle-sharp eyes, and striking color contrasts of red, black, and gold that exude power. The school’s signature skill is mandala painting: intricate geometric patterns nested layer by layer, so detailed their turns can only be seen with a magnifying glass. Each pattern corresponds to a Buddhist cosmic view, a "microcosmic map of the universe."

Centered in Dege (Garze, Sichuan) and Chamdo (Tibet), the Karma Gadri School was formed in the 16th century, distinguished by its integration of Han Chinese gongbi (fine brush) techniques. Artists use mineral pigments while adopting the Han "boneless" painting method for soft color transitions. For backgrounds, they incorporate elements of Han landscape painting — distant mountains, flowing water, and clouds blend with Tibetan temples and prayer flags, combining sacred Tibetan charm with scholarly elegance. Most impressive are its "black gold Thangkas": gold lines on a black base, accentuated with silver and cinnabar, shimmering like a starry sky woven into cloth.

Many people think Thangkas are "distant from daily life," but today there are numerous ways to engage with this art — even integrating it into our lives.

Many museums in China house precious Thangkas, such as Vajrabhairava Thangka at the Tibet Museum, Qing Dynasty Embroidery Thangka at the Palace Museum, and Karma Gadri Landscape Thangka at the Shanghai Museum. When visiting, follow the rules: avoid flash photography (strong light damages pigments), keep quiet, and observe pigment texture and line details. Ancient Thangkas have subtle mineral 颗粒感 (granularity), while gold lines are "fluid without breaks" — key signs of quality.

If you travel to Tibet, don’t miss the Sakyamuni Thangka at Jokhang Temple. Enshrined in the main hall, it has been permeated by the smoke of butter lamps for centuries, giving the fabric a warm patina. Countless believers have knelt and prayed before it, creating an atmosphere of "coexistence between humans and art" that is hard to feel in museums.

For daily use, small replica Thangkas (intangible cultural heritage certified) are ideal. Many young artists now create "lifestyle Thangkas" with Tibetan landscapes or auspicious patterns — no religious elements, but preserving Thangka’s color aesthetics. Hanging them above a living room sofa, study desk, or bedroom headboard, the lapis blue and cinnabar red instantly enhance the space. Unlike ordinary decorative paintings, natural mineral pigments are harmless to the human body.

If collecting, keep these tips in mind: First, "Thangkas" under 1,000 yuan are mostly machine-printed with chemical pigments — no collection value and prone to fading. Second, insist on handcrafted pieces: hand-painted Thangkas have "brush texture" and subtle pigment granularity, while machine-made ones have stiff lines and uniform colors. Finally, respect their cultural nature: do not fold or touch religious-themed Thangkas casually. Store them in a dry, well-ventilated place away from moisture and direct sunlight, and clean dust gently with a soft brush.

Last year in Regong Art Village, I met a post-95 artist painting a Thangka of "snow-capped mountains and yaks." He used traditional mineral pigments but added modern starry sky elements to the background. He said: "We must preserve our ancestors’ craftsmanship, but also make it appealing to young people." In that moment, I realized Thangka’s longevity stems not only from its religious significance but also its ability to "grow" — from King Songtsen Gampo’s blood Thangka to contemporary works blending modern aesthetics, it has never been trapped in time. Instead, it flourishes in the hands of each generation of artists.

Today, a small Thangka hangs in my study — a hand-painted "Eight Auspicious Symbols" by a Regong artist. When tired from work, I look up at its warm blue and gold, feeling a sense of peace from the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. That’s the charm of Thangkas: more than art, they are a source of calm, offering us a sense of "faith" amid the fast pace of modern life.