Almighty painter

Chapter 981 In the Hall
"I've discovered something very interesting..."

As Gu Weijing walked down, he happened to hear Sarah speak.

So, Gu Weijing, who had just finished playing the violin and was still immersed in the world of music, and whose mind had not yet fully grasped the atmosphere, casually replied with a sentence that made him want to search the whole street for a pill to undo his mistake a few seconds later.

"What's so interesting?"

In the eerie, chilly atmosphere of the room, the young artist asked a question with a foolish enthusiasm.

"Oh."

Sarah said.

"What do you think is the essence of art?" the old lady asked.

“This is a very broad question, and I can’t really answer it,” Gu Weijing replied casually. “You told me the story of Midas. I think that painting a glittering gold painting is probably not what art is trying to achieve. I think… the desire to speak out against injustice is at least a little closer to the essence of art than a pile of gold.”

Gu Weijing looked calmly at the white-haired old woman.

"And compared to the technical affirmation from art critics, what touches people's hearts is a little closer to the essence of art."

The former is gold, the latter is the purpose of art.

Art should not exist as a subordinate to gold, nor should it exist as a "subordinate" to the art director of the magazine "Oil Painting".

This is Gu Weijing's response to Sarah's "Midas" question.

ho.

Here we go again, bringing up the same old story.

But this time, she was not outmatched.

Gu Weijing felt that his answer was excellent, and he didn't care even if Ms. Sarah was not satisfied with it.

It's great that you like my work.

Even if you don't like my work, I still believe that it can touch the hearts of some people.

"very good!"

To everyone's surprise, Sarah nodded slightly in approval.

"The interesting thing is that there are often some people in this world who show a deep sense of sympathy and a defiance of authority. When she's in the spotlight, she's utterly disdainful of authority. She criticizes Sir Brown, she criticizes the commercial alliances of the major galleries, she criticizes the existence of inequality and injustice. She asks everyone there, 'What is art?'"

"Is 'The Death of Socrates' an expression of the art of Socrates, or the art of Mettorès, calling on people to fight for art? When she wrote the article, she was deeply moved, recalling how a 19th-century Impressionist painter was imprisoned and tortured to death in a cellar by his father because of power and his subordinate status. Hmm, I can imagine the tears falling from her eyes and wetting the paper."

"She cried, didn't she? She must have cried."

Sarah said.

"Such delicate and abundant emotions flowed from the tip of her pen; how could she not have a good cry? If you ask me, I would guess that, normally, she would often be unable to help but feel sorry for herself, putting herself in the other person's shoes. It's as if she had become that painter in the cellar."

"So soft, so helpless, God, why is this happening to me? It's so unfair, so infuriating. She wanted to hold the other person, she wanted to melt the other person into her own body, or melt herself into the other person's body. She wanted to warm the other person, that warmth felt like it could melt the whole world..." Sarah seemed to be praising the other person, but there was also undisguised mockery in her tone.

Gu Weijing was dumbfounded.

He realized it.

There are reasons why the atmosphere in the hall was so cold, and why none of the guests dared to respond.

A cat and a dog lay by the fireplace. August's chestnut eyes were fixed on everyone in the living room. He sniffed the air, wanting to run to his owner's side. Awang, on the other hand, rubbed against the dog and pushed it back with his rear end.

Foolish man.

I wonder if they're not used to having so many guests suddenly.

So the mischievous cats were just quietly sunbathing on the floor by the fireplace today.

They're all idiots.

Even if you brought in a big cow, you'd know not to make a sound in that kind of situation. A big cow is more understanding than a human being.

Meow, did this landmine hit its own chest?
Fortunately, it seemed that Miss Elena did care about her painter. She stretched out two fingers, pinched a stem like an orange, and took the hissing, smoking landmine from Gu Weijing's hand.

"So what?"

Anna, whether genuinely not angry or feigning it, asked casually, "Carla's story truly moved me. I empathize with her experiences, and I don't find anything ridiculous about it."

“I didn’t say it was funny, I said it was interesting.”

Sarah said, "Laughable is a ridiculous posture that is displayed. But funny... I think it's a ridiculous mentality that is unaware of itself, which makes people laugh but is actually sad at the underlying level."

"She despises the power relations inherent in art, yet she also worships them. She despises those who become slaves to wealth, yet she herself has become a slave to wealth."

"She questioned why art couldn't be soft, delicate, or warm, and why it had to yield to the opinions of art critics like Sir Brown. But once she sat down to write art reviews, she transformed herself into a muse, effortlessly deciding the fate of painters."

"She is not soft, not delicate, not warm at all. She is Her Majesty the Queen, and her will is the will of the Muses. Subconsciously, she believes that art critics should be superior, and she places herself in that superior position."

"Not only does she want to be superior to others and be a muse, but she also wants to be superior to all the art directors of 'Oil Painting,' to be the muse of all the muses, and she must gain the respect and recognition of the other goddesses, otherwise she will be struck down with thunder."

The old lady said.

“Now I understand why some people can claim to love oil painting and believe that oil painting is the lifeblood of their family, but when they suddenly find out that their daughter has actually gone to Paris to paint oil paintings, they get so angry that they go crazy, tie her up with ropes, whip her, and deprive her of food, torturing her to death. Because they don’t love this world, they don’t love others, they only love themselves.”

"I always feel that when some people are projecting their imaginations onto others, when she's crying her eyes out, if she looked in the mirror more often, she would realize that she might be projecting her imagination onto the wrong person. She's harder than the hardest rock."

Sarah said slowly.

"Can a stone understand temperature, or the feeling of tenderness and softness?"

"Whether she's the one locked in the cellar, or the one who locked someone else in the cellar in a fit of rage, I think it's hard to say."

After she finished speaking, the room fell silent.

There was a bang.

The landmine exploded silently.

The guests in the hall felt suffocated by the oppressive atmosphere sweeping through from all sides, making it hard to breathe and causing them to feel suffocated.

If that Dutch cow, which is exceptionally sensitive to noise, were actually in this room, listening to this awkward silence, it might take a few steps, move closer to Gu Weijing, and stick out its pink and white tongue to lick Gu Weijing's fingers.

Dear.

Otherwise... why don't you play the violin? Listen carefully, it sounds quite nice.

One appears powerful, but is actually weak. The other appears weak, but is actually powerful.

Gu Weijing didn't play the violin; instead, he spoke.

Sarah turned to look at him.

"Superficial strength and superficial weakness can never be a reason to categorize people. The difference between Kara and her father, the count, is not in appearance. It's not about who is more ruthless, or who holds the whip."

“The count took a whip, tied her up, lashed her, locked her in the cellar and tortured her to death, but that cannot conceal a person’s inner powerlessness. On the contrary, Kara died, weak and powerless, but she was truly as hard as a stone.”

“That’s the difference between Kara and the Earl,” Gu Weijing said.

Sarah shrugged. Deckard Anlen, who was on the sofa, had witnessed the conversation. He was also a guest at today's internal preview meeting, and if Sarah hadn't been there, he would have been the most eye-catching guest in the entire venue.

but.

When the two art directors of the magazine "Oil Painting" started arguing heatedly in the lobby, not many people paid attention to him.

to this end.

Deckard Anlen even felt a genuine sense of relief.

Some news cannot be hidden, just as no one can wrap fire in paper. Anna Elena is a fire that can burn everything related to her into a blaze.

Wherever it goes, it burns.

On her YouTube channel, she made Vandoorne run for his life; at the art convention, she got Brown Levinson into trouble. She went on a boat trip—Liu Ziming's perfectly good large ship, with a voyage that could circle the Earth countless times, had been running smoothly until it was almost towed for scrapping—and as soon as she boarded, the ship was hijacked.

It wasn't the Titanic that struck an iceberg in the ocean.

Rather, it's this Miss Anna... she herself is that iceberg.

promise.

it's good now.

The fire finally reached his own head. When he learned the news, Deckard Anron was looking at something. Many pop artists had quirks in their lives. Andy Warhol liked to collect Campbell's soup cans, hoarding hundreds of cardboard boxes of cans, and Yayoi Kusama had an almost pathological obsession with polka dot decorations.

Deckard Anlen is a believer in Superman.

It's not Nietzsche's philosophical Superman, but the Superman from superhero comics.

Does that sound a bit cheesy?

It seems that many self-righteous artists have expressed a subtle disdain for comics, and superhero comics seem to be a symbol of vulgarity.

But that's precisely why Deckard Anlen likes Superman.

He never truly loved Superman, just as he never truly loved Pop Art.

What Dac Amren likes is a feeling.

The feeling of flying.

The entire development of Pop Art lies in its subversion of traditional creation, blurring the lines between highbrow and popular art. With glasses on, he was Clark Kent. Without glasses, he was the omnipotent "Superman." Andy Warhol ushered in this era of soaring wealth.

Deckard Anlen, on the other hand, wanted to continue this era in his own way.

A commercial myth in art.

The myth of art in commerce.

At the age of 32, on the day one of his works, which took him fifteen minutes to complete, sold for $30, he was looking at a Superman comic book while David Bowie's "Space Oddities" played in his headphones.

Listen to it over and over again.

Listen to it over and over again.

He felt as if he were flying, and he kept flying and flying until he reached the moon.

"Grond Control to Major DiJk!"

"Grone Control to Major DijK!"

Ground command calling Colonel Deckard. Ground command calling Colonel Deckard. Take the protein capsule, put on your helmet, start the countdown, start the engine.

Ground command is calling Colonel Deckard.

You did a wonderful job. God is with you.

"God is with you?" Deckard Anron laughed.

"I am with God."

He counted down, calculating the time it would take him to fly to the moon.

10.
9.
8.
7.
6.
……

then.

He then crashed his plane.

He had a very successful five years, winning several awards, collaborating with luxury brands, and joining top galleries. Deckard Anron even considered going to Venice. Damian Hirst returned empty-handed in the 1990s, and his subsequent expensive solo exhibition, which cost tens of millions of pounds and was deliberately scheduled a month before the Biennale, was seen by him as skirting the rules.

If he succeeds, perhaps that will mean something.

Of course, he ultimately failed.

His success was like that of a superman, and his failure was also like that of a superman. The difference between humans and gods is that gods never shed blood.

The moment you bleed, everyone will realize that you are weak.

The moment his commercial myth was diluted, he fell back to being an ordinary person. Like Superman, he flew through space, only to be suddenly struck by a bullet made of kryptonite, and then fell back to earth like a mortal.

He went from a poor kid in Manhattan to a top artist in the top 30 in terms of influence in just 5 years.

then.

It was a long, long, long fall. Fortunately, he had flown high enough that he was just a hair's breadth away from touching the stars, so he could continue to revel in this weightlessness.

He smiled at the camera, revealing his neat teeth, raised his fists high towards the sky, and stood with his legs straight and together.

Make it look like you're still flying.

Hopefully, a gust of wind or the spotlight of the media cameras will lift him up again. Only Deckard Anron himself knows that he is falling, falling ever lower on the wealth rankings and on the artist rankings.

When Maximilian III rejected his astronomical exhibition plan.

Deckard Anlen appeared angry, but inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief.

Because he didn't know whether the exhibition would be successful.

And now.

When Deckard Anlen saw the argument in the hall today.

He suddenly realized his sense of destiny.

He is witnessing the fall of another Superman.

Anna Elena will not lose; she will not bleed, she will not cry.

Therefore, she was powerful enough to straighten the Leaning Tower of Pisa with her bare hands.

If not.

So... that's his style.

(End of this chapter)