Shinsunghwa: The Visualization of the Invisible Energy of Lee Gapryong, Creator of Maisan Tapsa (2021)
What is ShinsungHwa?
ShinsungHwa is a unique form of spiritual art where drawings emerge through spontaneous, flowing movements. Artists tap into their subject’s energy and let Qi(氣) guide their hands, creating geometric patterns that serve as a universal language.
Commentary on a ShinsungHwa: Lee Gap-ryong
In the ShinsungHwa that depicts Lee Gap-ryong, the energy centers of his body reveal a clear presence of the symbol of light. At the very heart—the spiritual core—layers of this symbol radiate outward, like ripples spreading from a single drop of water. From his head, a path extends upward, marked by segments and nodes, as though charting a journey step by step. Taken together, these forms suggest that the stone towers he built at Tapsa were never just piles of rock, but something more deliberate, more alive.
Around his body, the layers of energy appear steady and strong, almost as if they could bear weight. Even above the symbol of light at his spiritual core, his energy continues to rise, reaching further upward. Beneath his feet, the material realm keeps its record of energy, while above his head, the spiritual realm does the same. The scope of this was so vast that additional space had to be opened in the record itself to contain it. Within those added spaces, one form appeared again and again: a diamond-shaped structure, an emblem that could be seen as a kind of sacred geometry of hidden knowledge.
All of this points to something he carried quietly—spiritual secrets not easily seen or understood by most. Yet through the towers he built and the notations he left behind, those unseen forces seem to continue their work in the world.
When you step through the gates of Tapsa at Maisan, it feels a little like walking into another world. The air seems to shift, and what catches your eyes first are the stone towers—strange and patient things, reaching toward the sky. Stones are, after all, just stones. But gathered, balanced, and carried upward in stacks, they turn into something else: towers that whisper of order, devotion, and persistence.
Once, there were said to be more than a hundred of these towers—about 120 in all. Now only around 80 remain, worn away not just by time but also by careless visitors. It’s a loss that lingers in the air. The towers weren’t built at random; they were placed in harmony with principles of yin and yang and the geometry of the Eight Trigrams. You can imagine what it might have felt like to stand among them all, intact, the space vibrating with an energy now only partly remembered.
People say that the man who began this work, Lee Gap-ryong—better known as Seokjeong—carried the stones himself. The story is that he hauled them with his own hands, though in truth others must have helped. Some of the larger towers contain stones brought from sacred mountains across Korea. Legends claim he traveled vast distances in uncanny ways, and even walked with a tiger as if it were a dog at his side. No written proof remains, but many villagers insist they saw things themselves, and their voices keep the stories alive.
Seokjeong was born in 1860 in Jeonnam. At twenty-five, after dreaming of a mountain spirit who called him, he came to Maisan and began his life of practice. His way wasn’t confined to one path—it carried traces of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoist traditions, woven together in a style often called pungnyudo, a way of living that blends philosophy with rhythm and beauty. The stone towers rose over thirty years, built as prayers for forgiveness and salvation for all beings.
But the towers were not his only legacy. It’s said he wrote some thirty books in his lifetime, each one shaped during moments of vision or divine encounter. What’s remarkable is that they weren’t written in Chinese characters or Hangul but in a script of his own, a language no one else knew. Most of the books disappeared during the Japanese colonial period. Of the few that survived, only two remain in his family’s care.
Seokjeong once said something that still echoes: “One day, when someone who has reached true spiritual depth appears, that person will understand these books. And in doing so, they will also discover the way to guide the world.”
Tapsa at Maisan: The Story of Lee Gap-ryong
When you visit a mountain shaped like two horse ears, you expect legends. On the slopes of Maisan (“Horse Ear Mountain”) stands a cluster of stone towers—silent markers of one man’s patience.
Lee Gap-ryong (李甲用) was born in 1860 into a noble family, a distant descendant of Grand Prince Hyoryeong of the Joseon dynasty. At twenty-five, as Korea faced uprisings and unrest, he withdrew to Maisan and chose a life of stillness.
He built not with bricks or mortar but with bare stones—some gathered nearby, others carried across ridges and streams. Over thirty years, he stacked about 120 pagodas by hand, each one balanced without cement, held only by weight, patience, and faith.
Stone, Spirit, and Balance
The towers rise like sculptures against the green mountain. Their forms are simple: a wide base, stones circling upward, and a flat capstone that seems to link earth and sky. Pebbles fill the gaps so wind and rain cannot break them. Some stand nearly nine meters tall; others are just a few stones quietly leaning into the hillside.
Few today would spend decades in such a task. Yet Lee’s patience turned into something more than craft—it became a meditation, a quiet offering of hope.
A Temple Takes Root
In time, Lee Gap-ryong became a Buddhist monk. What began as private practice grew into a place of prayer. Visitors gave names to the towers: Heaven-and-Earth, Sunlight, Moonlight, Medicine Buddha. Each one carries a story, a wish, or a blessing.
In 1979, the site joined the Taego Buddhist order. A small shrine followed in 1986, along with a bell tower and other simple halls. Today, the temple remains modest, offering not grandeur but calm.
Stories in Stone
Why did Lee build them? Some say the turmoil of his age—the Imo Rebellion, executions, and suffering—moved him to carry stones by day and pray by night, easing the world’s pain one stone at a time.
Another story points to the number 108. In Buddhist tradition, 108 represents human desires and worries. Perhaps his towers were a way to let them go—stone by stone, tower by tower.
Look closely at a tower. Small stones nestle into large ones, each piece leaning into another. It’s an act of trust—stone trusting stone. A child resting against it might feel its cool weight and sense the care of someone who wished the world to be steady.
These towers don’t boast or claim greatness. They simply stand—patient, weathered, alive with the breeze.
