Almighty painter

Chapter 1002 The Courage of Love
Williams placed the bow vertically on the strings, feeling a growing unease within him.

The smell of octopus in the restaurant, the woman's indifferent gaze, the lion-like cat, his trembling fingers, the Vienna Philharmonic's post so close yet so far, Miss Elena's merciless verdict, the conductor's roar in the school orchestra.

And that cold "Again".

Williams was surrounded by a series of illusions.

The violinist exhaled deeply, feeling his lungs contract as if they were shrinking, his leather clothes covering his ribs and his stomach collapsing, expelling these illusions along with the last breath of air from his stomach.

Williams felt a strong wave of weakness.

He was really tired.

Perhaps because he hadn't eaten breakfast, Williams was even a little unsteady on his feet. He adjusted his posture slightly, imagining the dazzling starry sky in the artwork.

He slowly began to inhale.

He seemed to want to draw the starry sky in that painting into his lungs, to inhale all those sensitivities, those desires, those resentments, those ecstasies... all that purest yearning for art into his body.

Once again—

Like Paganini's sudden realization after losing his violin in the casino, the violinist tries to embrace his childhood self.

"Again."

Williams said to himself.

He pressed down on the strings with his left hand and held the bow with his right, and the sound of the instrument echoed in the air.

Paganini's Capriccio No. 24 in A minor.

The strings sounded awkward at first, but as muscle memory returned to his fingertips, the music became faster and more lively. The first variation, the second variation, the third variation... one after another, a series of musical notes were played between Williams' ten fingers.

Only someone unmoved by the Philosopher's Stone, which can turn stones into gold, can retrieve it from the Magic Mirror, Potter.

Only those who forget themselves, only those who rediscover themselves, only those who forget the illusions of wealth, and only those who find that pure love for music from the very beginning, can reach the pinnacle of musical artistry.

The sun is high in the sky at this moment.

Williams felt as if he were under a dazzling starry sky, with the Muse descending upon him through the starlight.

He wanted to laugh out loud.

He is conveying the power of art to the surroundings through his ten fingers and four strings, rather than merely showing off his skills by playing complex techniques.

He is Williams.

He once thought he was the best violinist in the world, and he also thought he could never be a good violinist.

but now.

Whether someone is a good pianist or a bad pianist is not necessarily related.

The important thing is the performance itself; he poured the music into his palm and released it outwards through a piece of music.

Williams pushed his limits to the extreme, combining intricate technique with the turbulent emotions within him.

For the first time in months, Williams played Paganini's Capriccio so smoothly, and it was also perhaps for the first time in months that he played an entire violin piece so joyfully.

As the last note faded away.

Williams slowly sat down on the ground, hugged the violin to his arms, and breathed heavily.

Paper scraps drifted down.

A UAE banknote fluttered down into the violin case at Williams' feet.

The violinist lifted his eyelids and saw a bespectacled backpacker who looked rather silly standing in front of him.

"uh-huh!"

The backpacker gave him a thumbs-up and made an encouraging nasal sound.

"That's a good pull. Turn right after you go out that way, there's a place that sells Arabic burritos... Go buy something to eat."

Williams shrugged helplessly.

He knew he might be mistaken for some homeless performer who couldn't afford to eat.

Williams stared at the 10 dirham note in his violin case, overwhelmed with emotion.

"You know... if I had played this piece a few months ago, would the falling banknotes have drowned this violin case?"

For a moment, that's what the violinist was thinking.

At last.

Williams just smiled, picked up the banknote, and put it in his pocket.

"Thank you for your kind words. But... 10 dirhams isn't enough for an Arabic wrap."
-

The air conditioning in the museum chased away the scorching heat of the desert region in June.

Robert Kent shivered comfortably.

Life is tough!

He recalled the homeless performer who played the violin under the blazing sun and eventually became so hungry that he could barely stand due to low blood sugar, and couldn't help but feel some sympathy for him.

It was indeed very good.

Robert didn't understand music; he didn't know the name of the piece, nor did he know if all violinists in the world played the same melody. However, Robert was indeed somewhat moved by that brief performance.

It didn't feel like a musical performance; it felt more like a powerful bullfight.

The violinist looked incredibly haggard, yet his music possessed both lightness and power. After listening to it only once, Robert forgot many details of the piece, but the long, drawn-out notes from the bow lingered in the mind of the English literature graduate.

Memories add many filters to our memories, leaving only inaccurate and hazy impressions.

That final note was full of rich, resonant layers. When recalling that syllable, Robert felt that it didn't sound like a violin string, but rather like the vibrations of maple tree rings.

After the heavy rain, the trees grew another ring.

Just this.

Robert didn't regret giving the spare change he saved from buying the two-person ticket to the other person so they could buy something to eat; he considered it a good deed for the day.

……

"Wait, who are you—"

When Robert arrived at the entrance of the Maes Gallery, he encountered someone he had never expected.

An elderly woman with white hair was sitting on a sofa in the rest area next to the exhibition hall, with a small black voice recorder on the table next to her.

"Ms. Sarah?"

Art museums are not supposed to be noisy, but Robert couldn't help but shout out when he suddenly saw his "idol".

"you know me?"

The old woman turned her head and stared at the silly-looking young man with a scrutinizing gaze.

“I’ve read your articles, and you…you will come to see the exhibition in person?” Robert’s heart was pounding in his chest.

The art world is relatively small, and Sarah can hardly be considered a social celebrity.

despite this.

Robert was well aware of what the elderly woman before him meant to the art world today. His initial impulse to write this art biography stemmed largely from Sarah's writing, and from the unrealistic dream of one day achieving Sarah's status.

"That's how it is so far, child." The old woman thought the other person had asked a stupid question.

“I personally visit exhibitions, I personally eat, I personally go to the toilet—and I hope this situation can continue for a few more years,” Sarah commented.

“Uh, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I thought…you, you would have a special…uh, media event.” Robert choked for a moment, then explained, “I met Mr. Deckard Anlen yesterday.”

The old lady nodded casually.

When she heard the name Deckard Anlen, it was no different from hearing the name of an ordinary person.

Now that I've been recognized.

Ms. Sarah picked up the recorder on the table, intending to leave alone.

"—I wanted to write a biography of him. But Deckard Anlun recommended I see this exhibition at the Hermès Gallery—"

This topic seemed to pique Sarah's interest, and the old lady turned her head back to Robert.

She looked the other person up and down.

"A biography? Are you a biographer?"

“I’m working on a book called ‘The Power of Art’ for a future biographer,” Robert said.

"The Power of Art, that sounds like that famous British television art documentary. You like it."

“I like it very much,” Robert said.

Grandma Sarah frowned, maintaining her arrogant demeanor. "I didn't really like that documentary. It felt like it was dramatized for the sake of dramatization. It was like a stage play where everyone recited pre-written lines before going on stage, creating the image the TV station wanted it to present. Isn't that a kind of artistic bias?"

"Also, it seems that what you want to do has already been done by some people. I have a suggestion for you: don't be someone else's second son, kid. In this industry, that's probably not a very good sign."

Robert was speechless again by Sarah.

He was a little uneasy when he first encountered Sarah's style of commenting on everything.

"I, I, I..."

His budding artistic inspiration felt like it was being crushed by this old lady.

"Don't take offense," the old lady smiled. "It's probably not the documentary's fault. It's very difficult for me to like it, even if it's one of the most successful art documentaries in history. It's not that his writing isn't elegant enough; I just feel that Mr. Simon Schama is more like a big star than a professional scholar. Admittedly, the documentary has its excellent highlights, and he is the most attractive professional scholar in all of Europe. Perhaps this is the kind of jealousy that only an old lady like me has."

Ms. Sarah gave Anna Elena the same assessment.

She waved to Robert like a gypsy witch consulting a crystal ball.

"If you don't mind, tell me about your book. Also, I'm guessing that Deckard Anlen is having trouble sleeping because of art exhibitions like this?"

The moment I saw this exhibition.

Sarah knew it.

People like Deckard Anlen either dismiss an exhibition or are deeply moved by it.

There is no third possibility.

Since the other party recommended the art exhibition to others, it's probably the latter.

"and you?"

Robert couldn't help but ask, "What do you think?"

"Me? This exhibition..."

Sarah thought for a moment, then turned on the recorder that was recording her comments and said dismissively in front of Robert, "I'm disappointed. It's so petty. This exhibition is about the size of a fruit pit."

She already said that winning Sarah's favor is a very, very difficult thing.
-

Over the past few months.

Aside from preparing for the art exhibition, Detective Cat maintains his mysterious connection with Mr. Sloth, just as always.

Their "World Zoo" series of children's stories continues. The illustrations are regularly compiled into art albums and released as part of the brand's merchandise.

Gu Weijing continued to paint those colorful stories.

Gu Weijing skillfully employs a variety of techniques, including "Menzel's Basic Drawing Insights," "Painting Techniques with a Palette Knife," and "The Real World."

He became increasingly proficient in using these system skills, and the colors on the screen became more and more magnificent.

The content of the images, however, became increasingly clumsy and unrefined.

To draw fairy tales written for adults... This was the initial intention behind his series of illustrations for "The Little Prince".

Gu Weijing wanted to try to go a little deeper along this path.

Is the world of children wonderful?
This might be closer to a beautiful imagination: children are children precisely because they are often vulnerable, often passive recipients of the world's burdens, and the group least able to choose their own destiny.

Gu Weijing had witnessed life at the Good Luck Orphanage.

There are still many children in this world whose world is not beautiful at all; their world is cruel.

Gu Weijing prefers to say that children's world is very pure.

Children often possess a pure, simple, and bright joy untouched by the influence of society. They cry, they feel pain, they experience sorrow, but... children also often love this world, they are full of imagination for the future, and they believe in beautiful things.

Psychologists say that when people are mentally immature, they sometimes lack the ability to empathize.

Gu Weijing didn't think so.

Often, this is a lack of education, rather than a lack of a child's capacity to perceive the world.

Their world is very small, a miniature fruit pit.

Even a tiny seed can grow into a large tree.

If you have no love for them, they will have no love for the world.

If you hug them, play with them, and truly love them, they will feel warmth.

Gu Weijing witnessed many terrible things at the orphanage—bullying, acts of cruelty—yet he also saw that many children were still willing to love the world. The world was so terrible, yet they were still willing to love it. They even dreamed of becoming heroes after reading fairy tales.

That takes courage.

It is a kind of courage that many strong adults have never possessed.

……

Mr. Sloth stretched out his paw and placed an animal doll inside a glass case on the cabinet in his room.

Anna Elena cleared out a room specifically for recording podcasts and dealing with things related to her "Mr. Sloth" identity.

Miss Elena has already filled the shelves with these animal dolls.

Whenever a woman sees these things, her cold heart feels a little warm.

……

In this ticking slice of time, we see all corners of the world.

The detective cat is reading a fairy tale.

Mr. Sloth is playing with his little toys.

Ah Wang... Ah Wang, of course, continued to lead August's fierce attack.

(End of this chapter)