Almighty painter

Chapter 892: Well Painted

"To be or not to be, That is a question."

——(British) William Shakespeare——
Cui Xuanyou was trapped.

It is said that if a person falls into a river and is eaten by a water ghost, his soul will remain there forever until a substitute ghost is found.

Hovering.

Hovering.

Hovering on the surging river, the waves were their illusory hands, constantly hitting the bottom of the boat. Many years later, people cleared out a bunch of wild grass covered with mud from the bottom of the water. Among the grass leaves, there were a few white and hairy bones.

Old Yang left in a cool and unrestrained manner.

Cui Xiaoming couldn't leave.

His body could leave, leaving like a zombie.

His soul as a painter will remain here forever, in the surging air in front of the Esplanade.

Life after life.

If he didn't leave, his father wouldn't be able to leave either.

One person who wanted to drag others into the water stumbled and fell into the water on his back. Then one after another, one pulled another, struggling against the whirlpool they had stirred up.

Together we sank deeper and deeper.

This is a scene full of black humor.

Maybe it's all your own fault.

It is also a tragedy in the industry.

Gu Weijing looked at the father and son in front of him and felt a vague sense of fate. A few months ago, Mr. Cao made that call and wanted to ask Cui Xuanyou for advice on his behalf.

he.

Cui Xuanyou, Cui Xiaoming, including Mr. Cao himself, no one could have predicted what would happen here today.

If history had taken a slight turn at a certain fork in the road, this story would have very likely become a beautiful story.

……

Old Yang looked at Gu Weijing's back.

He hummed in his heart.

The subject of how to show off elegantly is too complicated for young people to grasp and they may fall into the trap without noticing.

This kind of thing is like the oil seller, the most important thing is the timing.

Only practice makes perfect can you achieve mastery.

Lao Yang has already done everything he needed to do. As for the remaining things, keeping silent in such a situation is the best response.

He had to run over and slap Cui Xiaoming's face hard, which was obviously what an angry young man would like to do.

"Yes, indeed."

How can Xiao Gu be as mature and steady as Brother Yang?
Old Yang smiled in his heart again.

He didn't try to stop the other person.

Arrogance is the privilege of talented young artists.

This is especially true when you are in high spirits.

If Edward Yang had discovered that painting of Ms. K., he would surely be posting it on WeChat Moments right now—

"Congratulations, Mr. Yang, on getting a Titanic. It's original, with original paint, 29-cylinder coal-fired boiler, 46000 standard British horsepower. No mortgage, no installments, full payment. You have the strength, no need to say more, your ship will speak for you."

compare to.

Slapping Cui Xiaoming in the face to vent one's anger is really nothing.

"That day, after discussing your artistic style with you, I saw your work on the second-floor booth. The painting, 'New Three Bodies of Buddha'."

Gu Weijing said slowly.

“Someone just asked me what I thought of that work…”

As he spoke, the noise around him disappeared almost immediately.

His voice was soft.

The media and reporters nearby had to hold their breath and prick up their ears to hear what he was saying.

So is Cui Xuanyou.

He took a step forward.

"Mr. Gu, Xiao Ming has nothing to do with this matter. When you discussed it—"

Gu Weijing shook his head.

“I stood in front of that picture for a long time.”

“Well drawn.”

He thought back to the painting "New Three Bodies of Buddha" and recalled the insights he had gained from seeing the work.

"Well done. I think it's a very good piece of work."

He repeated it again, then Gu Weijing turned around and followed Lao Yang away.

Old Yang blinked.

Cui Xuanyou was stunned.

Cui Xiaoming, who had been like a lost soul since coming out of the Esplanade, tilted his head and watched Gu Weijing disappear into the crowd.

First time in life.

Cui Xiaoming felt that he had lost so completely and had lost everything.

Liu Ziming watched all this from afar, and the last trace of uneasiness in his heart melted away from the bottom of his heart.

That night.

On the way back home, Liu Ziming made a call using the car's Bluetooth.

"Teacher, I want to tell you something..."

Also on that night.

Gu Weijing received an unknown email in his work mailbox.

Later, when Gu Weijing opened the email, he found that there was nothing in it, no text, no title, and it came from an anonymous private mailbox.

The only content was a photo of a drawing that was hastily captured by a camera on the Telegram phone screen.
-
After the rest day.

It's another Monday.

Anna Elena, with her identity card of Oil Painting magazine hanging on her chest, walked slowly into the exhibition hall of the Biennale, leaning on a cane.

The young art critic was wearing a turquoise top with a violet lining that was slightly lighter than turquoise, and a dark red satin skirt with a lower color purity.

From a hue perspective.

This kind of clothing with a sharp contrast in purity is difficult to control when worn.

It is a combination of both vulgar and elegant.

It was 5:30 in the morning, and there were still about two and a half hours before the exhibition hall officially opened to the public. She had come here early for some reason, and there was only one woman in the empty exhibition hall.

Walk slowly.

Walk slowly.

She walked between the booths.

If Mr. Yang, who is known as the "trend destroyer", wore clothes of this color, it might make people feel like a shed Dalmatian running around happily in the booth.

She was like a sloth moving slowly in the branches of a hazy forest in the early hours of the morning, when day and night were changing.

The woman's figure was reflected on the shiny, smooth floor illuminated by the spotlight and in the night before dawn behind her, both like the brushstrokes of an impressionist painter, emitting a cold light that was sometimes bright and sometimes blurry.

This is the last week of the Biennale. The special exhibition hall in collaboration with the National Gallery Singapore has expired and closed. During the rest days of the exhibition, the exhibition staff redecorated the exhibition hall.

The pavilion has become something completely different.

Miss Elena's eyes casually swept across an oil painting on canvas, the entire picture of which was occupied by a few scattered blocks of color with strong contrast inlaid with each other.

The name of this painting is "Ten Thousand Flowers".

Anna could see that the painting was probably influenced by Mark Rothko, an artist who dropped out of Yale and was almost self-taught.

He claimed that he had a very lonely first half of his life.

There are no reporters, no news, no art galleries, no art supply dealers, no collectors...a lonely road to art.

He was so lonely that he spent most of his time washing dishes in a restaurant to make a living, and the rest of his time working as a tailor in a garment factory in New York.

And the rest of his life.

This seemingly unattractive, bald, chain-smoking middle-aged painter is considered a charismatic genius who brought a visual miracle to the art world.

It is listed alongside Picasso in Europe and Da Kunin in the United States, and has become one of the favorites of collectors.

The current price record of the works is a little bit more modest than the previous two which exceeded 100 million yuan long ago, and is not as good as that of celebrities like Jackson Pollock.

Probably only... around 70 to 80 million US dollars.

The “only” things of top masters are always so unique.

"It is said..."

Miss Elena paused slightly, remembering that someone had accused Rothko's works of being similar in style to many painters of color block collage paintings.

A series of art celebrities such as Clyfford Still and Barnett Newman even jumped out and accused the media that Mark Rothko shamelessly plagiarized their inspiration and creativity.

Not surprising.

Abstract color block paintings are almost always composed of very simple elements.

Many works do seem to be quite similar.

It's not just abstract art.

Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, all over the United States, from the West Coast to the East Coast, especially in New York, these heated arguments about plagiarism and being plagiarized broke out everywhere in any coffee shop in Manhattan's art district.

This is especially true at various art exhibitions.

It's like a very traditional repertoire.

Think of this.

The woman stood slightly in front of the work, with her hands folded together, and the slender carbon fiber cane was placed under her palms like a sword.

“Well drawn.”

“Well drawn.”

Anna tilted her head and recited softly.

If at this moment, the painter who painted this oil painting on canvas titled "Thousand Flowers" was standing next to him.

Hearing the praise from the art director of Oil Painting magazine, I wonder if he was so excited that tears welled up in his eyes. He felt that the throne of the next "Rothko", the next master whose single work could be sold at a sky-high price of 7600 million US dollars, had begun to beckon to him.

but.

In fact, the woman was not praising the painting "Thousand Flowers" in front of her.

She wasn't even praising a particular work of art; she was simply repeating what she had heard someone else say the day before.

A young man looked at another young man.

They are enemies of each other.

“Well drawn.”

He said so.

Miss Elena wasn't sure how she should judge such a thing.

The debate between her and the other party about good lions, bad lions, real lions and fake lions is still fresh in her mind.

She had told him that the art world was not a fantasy land.

This is the real world, and it may be a bit cruel.

Around 1950, in Manhattan, New York, and throughout the United States, how many people were painting similar oil paintings with the qualities of abstract works?

100 people?
500 people?
Still 1000 people.

Even if we count the students from the Academy of Fine Arts, there might be as many as 5,000 people in total.

The woman's fingers pressed against the warm surface of the composite material.

At their peak, the works of these 5,000 people accounted for almost half of the North American art market. The combined prices of their works could buy the Empire State Building.

Ten billion US dollars. Perhaps it is not an exaggerated number.

Ten billion dollars, one hundred people, everyone is super rich.

Ten billion dollars, 500 people, 2000 million dollars per person, sounds pretty good. Even if it is distributed to 5000 painters, each person's work can be worth 200 million dollars.

But this is not the case.

Unlike tigers, lions are social animals.

The law of lions is that a group of lions gather together, but there can only be one lion king in the world. There are only one or two people whose casual works can sell for a full $100 million. Those who are slightly worse will be worth a full 100 times more.

Many more color block painters can't even sell their works for $1000.

They disappeared in the crowd.

There is no trace of it.

Miss Elena could care less whether a painter's work is worth $1000, $100 million, or $ million.

Oil Painting magazine can make a $1000 work worth $100 million.

It can make a $100 million work worth $ million.

She cares about the spirit.

A furious, burning spirit filled with a desire to fight.

Fighting, that fighting spirit that is full of rebellious temperament, that fighting spirit that is full of ridicule and mockery towards the world.

Rothko fought against the art world, the art market, all the critics, and even his own body.

His famous saying is -

“Art is an adventure about truth, and truth is always related to tragedy.”

He suffered from a serious illness and was almost dead. After the doctors tried their best to save him, he kept smoking and drinking heavily.

The surprising part is.

Nicotine or alcohol, two serious health-threatening carcinogens, did not kill him. What killed him was... a razor.

Generally speaking, severing an artery in the hand is not as fatal as severing an artery in the neck.

But Roscoe did it.

This painter, who had become the most successful among the 1000 painters in the Manhattan Art District, used a small razor to cut all the blood vessels and nerves in his wrist and died painfully in his studio.

And after he died.

Two things happened. This artist, who had almost no friends in his life and had a failed marriage, had his most trusted art partner, his personal agent Lloyd, secretly transferred away 800 works left by Rothko within three months of his death.

He was later fined $70 million in the 920s.

The second one is——

Rothko seemed to have been trying to fight the highly commercialized capitalist art market throughout his life, but his works after his death were priced at astronomical figures, becoming one of the most successful painters in the commercialized art market.

$1970 million in the 920s.

Full of dark humor.

"It's such a tragedy."

Miss Elena made a sharp comment in her heart, and she couldn't help but smile gently at the work in front of her.

happen.

She thought, coincidentally, the same words had also been said by Gu Weijing during that conversation between the two of them.

Art is about truth.

The truth is a tragedy.

Rothko's life may be a successful tragedy.

What about Kara?
A tragic failure.

"But...isn't this tragic attribute the charm of many works of art?"

Inside the empty Biennale pavilion.

Anna asked softly into the air.

“Not every tragedy can be turned into a family comedy. That would only take away the charm, the sadness, the thought-provoking soul.”

The so-called Dionysian spirit of art.

Isn't it just drinking and getting drunk in the face of pain, and forging one's own soul in the tragedy that is bound to happen?

A great tragedy is better than a mediocre comedy.

Gu Weijing.

A great tragedy is always better than a mediocre comedy!
Shakespeare created countless plays in his life, including tragedies and comedies, but how can his "As You Like It", in which lovers find love, lovers get married, and villains repent, be compared with "King Lear", "Macbeth" and "Hamlet"?

"You see, Shakespeare understands this better than you do."

A playful smile appeared at the corner of Anna's mouth.

In his early years, Shakespeare was famous for writing comedies that made people laugh. He had a small theater in London. The lines of the male and female protagonists were witty and humorous, and had a strong temperament of a joke teller.

Come to think of it, every time there is a performance.

There must be happy scenes both on and off the court.

But as he gradually entered middle age, his plays gradually began to focus on tragedies.

It makes people cry.

Anna couldn't imagine what the play would be like if "Hamlet" had eventually become a funny comedy, the prince had not assassinated his uncle, the sword was not poisoned, the mother had not drunk the poisoned wine, and the beautiful Ophelia had not suffered a mental breakdown and drowned in the stream.

if that is the case--

Perhaps the world would be missing not only a play by Shakespeare, but also the famous Pre-Raphaelite painting "Ophelia".

The art world is missing two outstanding works.

Maybe two hundred.

Anna really couldn't imagine the scene where everyone hugged each other and cried on the stage at the end.

That would probably be the funniest scene in the world.

Cigarettes and alcohol have always been harmful to health.

Anna really couldn't imagine what the healthy and long-lived Roscoe, who lived like a calculating stockbroker, looked like.

Anna couldn't imagine it either.

What exactly is Kara like, the woman who peacefully spends her life at banquets, parties and afternoon teas?

Such Kara and real Kara.

Which one makes people laugh more, and which one makes people want to cry more.

It's Anna instead.

She will definitely cut off Cui Xiaoming's "head" in an artistic way.

She would have done so without hesitation. A good-natured life lacks the outstanding charm of art.

"Why can't you learn how to face tragedy?"

Miss Elena lifted the cane in her hand slightly, then dropped it gently.

The dark tip of the cane tapped on the blurry figure on the smooth floor. Anna seemed to be gently tapping someone's forehead from a distance through this action and this shadow.

"If you can't even break free from the boring chains of life, facing the hunter's shotgun is just a boring joke."

“How can I trust you?”

"Mr. Gu."

Miss Elena's words were not a mockery.

She was just sighing.

What Gu Weijing said at the time might have been sincere, but after all, he was just a person like himself.

“Soaring, flying, floating, oscillating, the color blocks in Rothko’s works pursue the creation of a sense of space. It should be lighter than air and heavier than a piece of iron. It floats in the sky and sinks in the water.”

"And apparently—"

Anna casually looked at the work in front of her and tilted her head slightly.

“These blocks of color just sit on the surface of the canvas.”

"fail."

“Even abstract works are not without themes. What they pursue is a philosophical expression and restrained sensuality.”

"fail."

“Color block paintings look simple, but gentle and weak color blocks cannot create strong expressions. And in works that look messy, this strong expression is very important.”

"fail."

……

Anna lost interest, turned around and left the booth.

She took two steps.

Then it stopped again.

Just when the artist who painted this work, if he were present at the scene, might have a glimmer of hope that the critic would come back.

“An excellent abstract work should have a special quality—even if it looks simple, it should make people cry. Even if it looks chaotic and complicated, when the audience turns around, they can still feel an amazing sense of heat.”

“Paintings are flames.”

"Even if you turn your back to it, even if you turn off the lights, you still know it's there. It still burns your back like a raging fire. I did make a mistake about this the other day."

"I should apologize."

"But - unfortunately." Miss Elena paused, "I don't feel such a trait in you either."

“Still failed.”

Anna walked slowly, leaning on the crutch in her hand, like a sloth moving at a snail's pace.

Behind.

The Singaporean artist was left alone without knowing what had happened, and who knew whether Miss Elena’s sharp comments would shatter his faith.

Here.

This is Miss Elena's sarcasm.

The woman moved around the exhibition hall, from one booth to another in the newly decorated hall, like a sloth, carefully jumping from one branch to another.

Make a sharp comment or two from time to time.

Until one moment, Miss Elena stopped again.

She knew she would see a certain work.

She knew she was here for this.

Little did she know that she would see this work.

She is a brilliant critic, erudite and astute, sharp and sharp-tongued.

When she sees many works, she will make sharp comments.

She would think of poetry, of Byron.

From a not-so-successful work, Anna could think of Mark Rothko, Greek drama, real-life disputes, William Shakespeare, and many, many more... In that long list of names, she could think of others and herself.

But one day.

When you really encounter a work of art in your life, a truly well-painted work of art.

All these names, those art theories, disappeared in an instant.

She would just turn her head, concentrate, and gently open her mouth.

"what."

Just a simple word.

The only word.

what.

He really understands.

A good painting is a flame.

(End of this chapter)