Almighty painter

Chapter 777 The Second Day

Under the leadership of Queen Anna (note), everyone should tell a story that has twists and turns at the beginning, turns out to be a blessing in disguise, and ends with a surprising outcome.

——《Singapore·Ten-Day Art Exhibition Day 2》

(Note: The original preface of the second day of Giovanni Boccaccio's famous work "The Decameron" is: Under the leadership of Queen Philomena, everyone should tell a story that starts with twists and turns, then turns danger into safety, and finally ends with a happy ending.)
(Note: I wish all readers a happy and smooth new year without any twists and turns.)——
Elliot clenched his fingers.

She didn't know that Miss Elena was almost so angry yesterday that she couldn't help but want to pour the coffee in her hand on the head of the young man opposite.

But - did you see the cup of piping hot green tea with white steam coming out of it that the police officer pushed over to you?

The secretary cast her eyes on the cup of tea in the lady's hand. She watched the green tea stems rise and fall in the liquid.

The secretary meant if, if this was not a remote interview via telephone, if the person conducting the interview was Elliott.

It was now dripping drop by drop from the middle-aged man's chin.

"Oil Painting" magazine is a typical reading material for elite intellectuals.

Even if some of the comments are sharp and sarcastic in tone, they are old-fashioned and elegant, and make people feel as if they had drunk a cup of light-roasted bitter coffee.

Its style is a bit like The New Yorker, which is more serious, more focused on the art field, and whose main subscribers are from a slightly higher social class, or The Paris Review, which has a larger number of subscribers and greater social influence.

all in all.

In the words of Lord Brown - they run an old-fashioned magazine for cultured and respectable people.

It is a professional art magazine written by intellectuals and read by respectable people, and it can be displayed in rows in the first-class waiting room of Air France's headquarters in Paris Airport. Only in this way can they find their own foundation in this era of declining print media.

Therefore, all the interviews conducted by "Oil Painting" are also very elegant and decent interviews. Everyone talks back and forth, and any ideological disputes are often resolved in a literary manner.

This conversation between Anna and Hao Ge had a very decent start, just like countless conversations before.

But the process was completely different from any previous conversation.

Hao's words are not just impolite, they have reached the level of being obscene and vulgar.

Don't say Anna.

If it were her, or anyone else in the office, who was attacked like this, they would not be able to suppress the anger in their hearts.

Elliot decided it was time.

Brother Hao was still saying something into the microphone. In order to prevent Anna from feeling embarrassed, as a secretary, he should be considerate and help his employer resolve the awkward situation at the moment.

Just as she was about to speak.

Elliot, lost in thought, inadvertently noticed the water in the disposable teacup was shaking.

The tea slurry was oscillating rhythmically at a not-too-fast frequency, and the green tea formed shallow concentric circles in the white cup.

…The secretary suddenly realized that Anna was in a trance at the moment.

It is very difficult for ordinary people to feel Anna's emotional changes. She sits next to you like a noble sitting between layers of curtains on the nine-story steps. You raise your head and peek at her secretly, and can only see a hint of crystal clear and cold white through the draped silk.

As someone who has been with Anna for a long time, Elliot can still discover some little girlish details and habits in her life that are not noticed by outsiders.

For example, in the corner of Anna's bedroom cabinet, there has always been a blue fat Doraemon stuffed animal. She has a very mysterious iPhone that seems to be used to call her secret friends. Another example is that when Miss Elena is in a trance, her whole body remains motionless and there is no special expression on her face, but the woman's fingertips will tap lightly between her hands, as if she is subconsciously beating the rhythm.

Just like it is now.

Elliot looked up.

Anna sat with her back to her, holding a teacup and looking at the scenery outside the window, maintaining this posture.

In the distance from the office are just some ordinary urban scenes that can be found everywhere.

Looking from this angle, the old buildings piled on top of each other appear messy and crowded.

In the distance is a corner of the Yangon River reflecting the morning sun. Coincidentally, a boat on the river blew its whistle at this moment. The loud whistle sound came from afar, seeping in through the gaps in the office windows, along with the rainy season wind.

The fine hair on the woman's ear swayed slightly in the wind, but the delicate emerald earring hanging under her earlobe was frozen and motionless.

White, green, brown, dots, lines, and surfaces.

Combination of movement and stillness.

All sounds and colors.

"She's not angry, not furious, she's just in a trance." This voice sounded in Miss Elliot's heart.

Probably even Brother Hao would not have thought that he was attacking Miss Elena in the most vicious tone into the microphone.

And here is Miss Elena.

But he had been lost in thought about other things and other people for a long time.

"Do not."

Just when the secretary was hesitating whether he should or should not speak up to take over the topic for the young lady at this time, Anna had already spoken first.

"I'm sorry, but I still don't agree with what you said." Anna came back to her senses and said softly.

"What have I said that is not true?"

Brother Hao asked back, "Are you going to deny your family's history?"

"No, you are right. I have no way to refute it. This is the true history of the rise of the Elena family."

Miss Elena said softly, "Our money is stained with blood. My ancestors were the kind of people who loved art while ignoring the suffering around them. They were the kind of people who claimed that they loved art so much and were so elegant, and that they regarded art as their life, but at the same time they locked their daughter who really wanted to be a painter in a cellar and tortured her to death."

"That's it."

"This is the true face of their glorious history. There is no way to defend or excuse it. Evil is evil, guilt is guilt, and what Mr. G said is right. I thought of many rebuttals, but I know they are all sophistry. This is part of our family history."

"My ancestors were never the Virgin Marys, and neither am I."

Anna spoke slowly.

"But I still won't say that I, Miss K, and you are exactly the same person. No, I don't agree with that."

"Why? Because your ancestors were nobles, and I am a criminal." Brother Hao asked disdainfully.

“Because they are ancient people.”

Miss Elena said: "Some great people can transcend their time, but they don't. They are just ordinary ancient people."

"How the old Earl founded Oil Painting magazine with his passion for art is described in great detail on the Oil Painting website. Everyone can easily find it and read it...if Sir Brown hasn't had time to take it down."

Anna continued.

"But I can even tell you very frankly that you won't find any text on the official website that describes the other side of this story."

"As one of the oldest existing art review magazines, the reason why Oil Painting Magazine is named Oil Painting instead of Art or any other name is very simple. Because the generation that founded the magazine, my great-great-great-grandfather, who is the owner of the statue standing in front of the manor holding the Oil Painting magazine with the words "A beautiful soul cannot be bound and will find freedom", believed that there is only one serious art form in the world, and that is oil painting."

"In his mind, those who draw with pens are mud-legged rubble workers, those who paint with watercolors are just children graffiti, those who do sculptures are low-level stonemasons, and those who do printmaking and illustration are all vulgar profit-seeking businessmen who are not worthy of the word art at all. Rembrandt and Turner later became illustrations, all of which were shameless degenerates who bowed to money. Oh, if it is the art style of those African tribal indigenous peoples, it would be even worse. In the eyes of the old count, they can only be regarded as monkeys' random graffiti on the mud."

"It is said that he always tipped the black male singers at the luncheon club every time he went there. No more, no less, exactly a quarter of a silver crown each time."

Anna recalled, "This was not a small amount at the time, enough to make others cry with gratitude. In the family biography, this incident was described as a sign that the old count loved black friends and sponsored black artists. Oil Painting magazine wrote about him as a pioneer of the black equal rights movement, touting him as Martin Luther King of the Austro-Hungarian Empire."

"But I seriously doubt that he never considered the other person as his friend, let alone as an equal to himself. I even seriously doubt that my great-great-great-grandfather never knew the name of the black singer who sang in the lunch club every day."

"He never hugged him, never held his hand, and never cared where he lived, how many children he had, or whether the income from singing here could support the family. For the old count, such concern, even if it was a little bit false and perfunctory, was always much more precious than a quarter of a crown."

The woman in the wheelchair said softly.

"It's very likely that he thought of the black musician as a breathing musical phonograph. Every time he ate at the lunch club, he tipped the other party with the same mentality as modern people put coins into a music jukebox."

"Would you care about the jukebox in the restaurant, whether you are tired from working every day, and how many children you have at home?"

Anna put the cup of tea in her hand on the desk.

She just revealed the most shameful and ugliest side of the predecessors who founded the magazine.

"Martin Luther King of Austria. I wonder who would be more angry if that were said to two different people: my great-great-great-grandfather or Dr. King?"

"It is said that his personal motto is: Since God created black and white people when He created mankind, then we should naturally obey God's will and keep them clearly separated. I think if he were in the United States half a century later, he would definitely be the kind of person who clearly supports racial segregation."

The woman shook her head.

"Similarly, he probably would never have imagined that his grandson, my great-grandfather, another noble and high-ranking Count Elena, would eventually be imprisoned in a racial concentration camp."

"look?"

Miss Elena glanced at everyone in the office and spoke as if she was talking about someone else's family.

"That gentleman is absolutely right."

"Sometimes, reality is full of black humor and is extremely educational."

"People always tend to inadvertently look down on the suffering of others. They are always used to putting themselves on a pedestal and looking down on others. They always like to say "I am good, you are not good", and they are always so arrogant. Until the same thing happens to themselves, suddenly, they know what pain feels like again."

"My great-great-great-grandfather was like that, my great-grandfather was like that, and maybe Frau K. is like that. Maybe even... I am like that too."

Once again, Anna looked out the window absentmindedly.

"But sir, I don't think that I am exactly the same as you. I am exactly the same as you who dared to scold Adolf's great-grandfather. I am exactly the same as you. Mrs. K., who dreams of becoming a painter, is exactly the same as you."

"Or rather, I don't believe that you and I are exactly the same person. We are not saints, we are not the Virgin Mary, but we are not you."

"I also don't think that I have no right to talk about art and love art in front of you."

"Why? I can love art like you do. I want to be admired when I'm born, and I can also point my finger at the nose and scold the mustache guy. I want to have whatever I want when I'm born, and I can also play with art. I want to have endless money when I'm born, and I can donate this and that. I can also be like an arrogant princess, and give orders here." Brother Hao sneered. "I have your conditions, and I can be a better person than you."

"We don't talk about good or bad, we only talk about power. I have countless passports and countless names, and each of them can make me a fucking rich big shot. And if your name is not Anna Elena, and you change it to any other name, you will not even be qualified to talk to me."

"Who can't love art like this? Miss, you can look down on me, but I can become the godfather of art in the underground world because of my hard work. You sit here, being an art critic, being a column manager of Oil Painting magazine, just simply because your last name is Elena——"

"No, you can't. I believe that Mr. G is qualified to say such things, but you are not. If it was Mr. G who said such things to me today, saying that Ms. K and I are bitches, I can only listen, but you are not qualified to say it."

Anna interrupted Chen Shenglin's speech and paused.

"Because you don't believe in the power of art."

"That's the difference between you and Ms. K. That's the difference between you and Mr. G. But Mr. G didn't say that to me."

Anna opened her notebook, flipped a few pages forward, and saw the sketches she had made last night.

【——Kara is like Van Gogh. 】

[——The constraints of life are everywhere. Fame and success did not make Van Gogh feel warm and happy. Perhaps wealth and wealth did not make Carol feel warm and happy either——]

She looked at the words in the notebook.

"I am different from you. I am willing to believe that art is powerful."

"You don't believe in the power of the mind."

The young woman's voice echoed through the room.

"Whose heart?"

“Everyone’s heart.”

"Ms. Elena." Hao Ge's tone was full of mockery. "Art is not about being mysterious. You can talk about this concept, that concept, and say something meaningless that others can't understand-"

The woman in the room was distracted again.

Her attention was a little distracted.

Her thoughts drifted away with the rainy season wind outside the window, drifting to the other side of the sea. She didn't know when today's interview would be put on paper.

Could that so-and-so hear what she was saying at this moment? —
"If an old senior in the art world told me today that I had taken the wrong path in painting from the beginning and that my works were cracked, I would have reflected on it very seriously. I could only listen carefully, but he didn't say that to me in this painting."

"You explained the understanding of artistic style better than I did. But regarding the interpretation of the origin of art, perhaps you would be interested in hearing my opinion."

Singapore.

Esplanade - Theatres on the Bay.

The conversation between Gu Weijing and Cui Xiaoming in the special exhibition hall has been going on for a long time.

They were surrounded by international visitors, art center staff, and judges and guests specially invited by the organizing committee of the Biennale. They gathered around the two of them, with curious smiles on their faces, and several mobile phones were held high around them.

Gu Weijing fixed his gaze on Cui Xiaoming's face and spoke in a calm tone.

"I think it might be helpful to your painting career."

"Oh? For the Sutra."

Cui Xiaoming was wearing a clean white shirt and his tone was a little playful.

"But what is the origin of art? Some kind of philosophical theory?" Cui Xiaoming shrugged.

"It's not that I don't believe you, but I'm saying that if...if a person can't even analyze artistic techniques well enough, and his analysis is not clear enough, and he starts talking about this concept, that philosophy, wouldn't it seem too...too ambitious?"

The mixed-race young man shook his head.

"Don't be angry. I'm not targeting you, but just say whatever you want to say." He looked at the people around him, "Do you think this is the truth?"

(End of this chapter)