乾隆宸翰何真假
衣若芬
走进博物馆，看见一幅古画，上面题着诗，旁边钤满大大小小的印章。许多人第一时间会问：这是不是乾隆皇帝亲笔？
这个问题看似简单，却未必容易回答。
前些时候在台北故宫看展览，面对一件传为乾隆御题的书画作品，我忽然想到：如果今天有人工智能能够百分之百模仿乾隆的笔迹，我们还能一眼分辨真假吗？而如果不能，那么我们究竟在寻找什么样的“真”？
乾隆皇帝是中国历史上留下题跋最多的皇帝。有人开玩笑，说他是“盖章狂魔”，或者是“弹幕达人”。然而，关于乾隆题字的真假问题，却一直存在。
故宫收藏中，有些作品上的御题被认为出自乾隆亲笔；有些则可能由宫廷朝臣代笔。对于书法鉴定家来说，这当然是重要课题。用笔提顿习惯是否一致？线条是否自然？结体章法是否符合乾隆书风？这些都成为判断的依据。
可是，当我站在展柜前凝视那些文字时，却觉得问题似乎不止于此。
即使某一段题字不是乾隆亲手所写，它是否就因此失去价值？
在现代人的观念里，作品往往与作者紧密绑定。我们推崇原创，重视亲笔，相信独一无二的创作主体。因此，一旦发现作品出自代笔，便容易产生失落感。然而，在传统中国宫廷文化中，事情未必如此。
一件御题作品的形成，往往涉及复杂的生产过程。构思诗文、书写题跋、装裱制作、内府收藏……最终呈现在我们面前的，并不是单一个人的劳动成就，而是一整套宫廷机制共同运作的结果。
换言之，所谓“乾隆宸翰”，有时候代表的不只是乾隆的手笔，而是乾隆的意志。从这个角度来看，真假便出现了新的层次。
真，不只是笔迹的真。
真，也是制度的真、时代的真、文化语境的真。
我们以为自己在观看文物，其实也在观看一套关于文物的叙事。
从文图学的角度来看，这一点尤其明显。
一件书画作品从来不是单纯的图像。画面、题跋、印章、装裱、收藏记录、展览说明，共同构成一个可供阅读的文本系统。观众所理解的“真迹”，往往不是来自某一个笔画，而是来自这一整套文图关系。
因此，当我们讨论乾隆宸翰真假时，实际上讨论的已经不只是书法鉴定，而是关于真实性的文化想像。
有趣的是，这个问题在人工智能时代显得格外尖锐。
今天的生成式人工智能能够模仿画风、模仿文体，甚至模仿历史人物的书法。如果输入足够多的乾隆书迹样本，也许未来真的能够生成一幅几可乱真的“乾隆御笔”。
到那时，真假又该如何界定？
如果一首诗是人工智能根据《御制诗集》学习后写出的；一幅字是根据乾隆书风生成的，那么它究竟是假作，还是另一种形式的再创造？
这个问题听起来很现代，却意外地又让我想到清代宫廷。
因为所谓“原创作者”的观念，本来就是近代以来逐渐形成的。乾隆时代的大量文化生产，早已建立在人与人协作的机制之上。今天的人机协作创作，不过是在新的技术条件下重新提出相似的问题。
于是，我忽然觉得自己寻找的答案已经改变了。
我不再急着判断那几个字是不是乾隆亲手所写。我更感兴趣的是：为什么我们如此在意它是否亲笔？
也许，真正值得思考的，不是乾隆宸翰究竟是真是假，而是我们如何定义“真实”。真实可以是一段笔墨留下的痕迹，也可以是一种时代精神的延续；可以是一位作者的亲手书写，也可以是一套文化机制的共同创造。
当人工智能不断挑战原创与作者的边界时，乾隆留下的那些题诗与印章，仿佛从历史深处发出回响——它提醒我们，真实性从来不是单纯的技术判断，而是一种文化选择。
因此，乾隆宸翰何真假？
或许答案并不在光学分析仪器下，也不在专家鉴定报告里。
答案更可能藏在我们观看它的目光之中。因为每一个时代，都在重新定义什么是真，什么是假；而每一次定义，也都映照着那个时代对于历史、作者与自我的理解。
2026年8月15日，新加坡《联合早报》“上善若水”专栏
How Genuine Is Qianlong’s Imperial Calligraphy?
I Lo-fen
Walk
into a museum and encounter an old painting inscribed with a poem and covered
with seals of all sizes. Many people’s first question is: Was this really
written by the Qianlong Emperor himself?
The
question sounds simple, but it is not necessarily easy to answer.
Some
time ago, while visiting an exhibition at the National Palace Museum in Taipei,
I stood before a painting and calligraphy work said to bear an imperial
inscription by Qianlong. A thought suddenly occurred to me: if artificial
intelligence today could reproduce Qianlong’s handwriting with one hundred
percent accuracy, would we still be able to distinguish the genuine from the
fake at a glance? And if not, what kind of “authenticity” are we actually
looking for?
The
Qianlong Emperor left more inscriptions and colophons than any other emperor in
Chinese history. People sometimes joke that he was a “seal-stamping fanatic” or
a master of “bullet comments.” Yet questions about the authenticity of
Qianlong’s inscriptions have persisted for a long time.
Among
works in palace museum collections, some imperial inscriptions are considered
to have been written by Qianlong himself, while others may have been executed
on his behalf by court officials. For connoisseurs of calligraphy, this is
naturally an important issue. Are the habits of brush pressure, lifting, and
turning consistent? Are the lines natural? Do the structure of individual
characters and the overall composition conform to Qianlong’s calligraphic
style? All of these become criteria for judgement.
Yet
as I stood before the display case and gazed at those words, I felt that the
question went beyond this.
Even
if a particular inscription was not written by Qianlong’s own hand, does it
therefore lose its value?
In
the modern understanding of art, a work is often closely bound to its author.
We prize originality, value autograph works, and believe in the uniqueness of
the creative individual. Once we discover that a work was written by someone
else on the purported author’s behalf, disappointment easily follows. Yet
things were not necessarily understood in this way within the culture of the
traditional Chinese court.
The
making of an imperially inscribed work often involved a complex process:
composing the poem or text, writing the inscription, mounting and producing the
finished object, and incorporating it into the imperial collection. What
finally appears before us is therefore not the achievement of a single
individual, but the result of an entire court system working together.
In
other words, “Qianlong’s imperial calligraphy” sometimes represents not only
Qianlong’s hand, but Qianlong’s will. Seen from this perspective, the
distinction between genuine and fake acquires new layers.
Authenticity
is not only the authenticity of handwriting.
It is
also the authenticity of an institution, an era, and a cultural context.
We
think we are looking at an artefact, but in fact we are also looking at a
narrative constructed around that artefact.
From
the perspective of Text and Image Studies, this becomes especially evident.
A
work of painting and calligraphy is never simply an image. The painting,
inscriptions, seals, mounting, collection records, and exhibition labels
together form a textual system that can be read. What viewers understand as an
“authentic work” often derives not from a single brushstroke, but from this
entire network of relationships between text and image.
Thus,
when we discuss whether Qianlong’s imperial calligraphy is genuine or fake, we
are in fact discussing more than the authentication of calligraphy. We are
discussing a cultural imagination of authenticity.
What
makes the question especially interesting is that it becomes particularly acute
in the age of artificial intelligence.
Today,
generative artificial intelligence can imitate painting styles, literary
styles, and even the calligraphy of historical figures. If supplied with enough
samples of Qianlong’s handwriting, perhaps one day it really will be able to
generate a “Qianlong imperial inscription” almost indistinguishable from the
real thing.
How,
then, should we define what is genuine and what is fake?
If a
poem is written by artificial intelligence after learning from the Imperially
Composed Poems, and a piece of calligraphy is generated according to
Qianlong’s style, is it a forgery, or another form of re-creation?
The
question sounds thoroughly modern, yet it unexpectedly brings me back to the
Qing imperial court.
The
very idea of the “original author,” after all, took shape gradually in the
modern era. Much of the cultural production of Qianlong’s time was already
based on mechanisms of human collaboration. Today’s human–AI collaborative
creation merely raises similar questions again under new technological
conditions.
At
that moment, I realised that the answer I had been seeking had changed.
I was
no longer in a hurry to determine whether those characters had been written by
Qianlong’s own hand. What interested me more was this: why do we care so deeply
whether they were?
Perhaps
what truly deserves our attention is not whether Qianlong’s imperial
calligraphy is ultimately genuine or fake, but how we define “authenticity.”
Authenticity may be the trace left by brush and ink; it may also be the
continuation of the spirit of an age. It may be writing executed by the
author’s own hand; it may also be something collectively created by an entire
cultural system.
As
artificial intelligence continues to challenge the boundaries of originality
and authorship, the poems and seals left by Qianlong seem to echo from deep
within history. They remind us that authenticity has never been merely a
technical judgement, but a cultural choice.
So,
how genuine is Qianlong’s imperial calligraphy?
Perhaps
the answer does not lie beneath an optical analyser, nor in an expert
authentication report.
More
likely, it is hidden in the way we look at it. Every age redefines what is true
and what is false; and every such definition reflects that age’s understanding
of history, authorship, and itself.
15
August 2026, “Shang Shan Ruo Shui” column, Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.
