It's just that they have money.

"This work has won international awards," Zhu Zilan said.

"Winning an award shouldn't shorten its duration," Fang Chen said.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

Zhu Zilan shook her head: "You really are..."

She walked away with Fang Chen.

Zhu Zilan walked ahead, her heels making a soft tapping sound on the marble floor.

Fang Chen followed behind her, watching the buckle of the thin leather belt around her waist reflect the light and shimmer.

As we approached the exit of the exhibition hall, the lights came on.

Zhu Zilan stopped and turned to look at him.

Fang Chen waited for her to speak.

"You really don't like art."

"It's not that I dislike it," Fang Chen thought for a moment before choosing his words. "It's just that I don't quite understand it, or rather, I'm not sure if what I see is what the artist wants me to see. What if what I see is different from what others see? Is it that I don't understand, or am I overthinking it?"

Zhu Zilan leaned against the wall, her expression becoming more serious.

"There are no standard answers in art."

Fang Chen shrugged: "Then you can't blame me for not understanding it. It's right and wrong, wrong and right, it makes sense no matter how you look at it."

Zhu Zilan leaned against the white wall, arms crossed, looked at Fang Chen for several seconds, and then suddenly smiled.

Not in a polite way.

Then she realized she shouldn't have laughed like that, and tried to stop, but not completely.

"You've hit the nail on the head. Much of art these days is essentially hype. It's not about what's painted, photographed, or sculpted that matters, but who painted it, who photographed it, who sculpted it, which museum it was exhibited in, and which collector bought it. These added factors are more valuable than the artwork itself."

Fang Chen cast a curious glance at him.

"You just said that what you see is different from what others see, and you're unsure whether it's because you don't understand or you're overthinking it. Let me tell you—what you see is what you see. If you think the crack in that wall looks like the wall in your hometown, then that's what you see. If others see differently, that's their business. Art isn't a high school exam; there are no standard answers."

Fang Chen looked at her and felt that her tone was more relaxed than ever before, as if she had put something down after walking around the exhibition hall.

"So, when you said those art pieces were hype, was that self-deprecation?"

"This isn't self-deprecation, it's the truth."

Zhu Zilan spoke as if she were talking about something very ordinary.

"I curated this art exhibition, but I understand the logic behind it. Whether a work is good or not is one thing; whether it can be seen is another. If it's not seen, its quality is useless. So you need curators, museums, collectors, media, and someone to promote it. After it's promoted, some people like it, some criticize it, some don't understand it, and some pretend to understand it—all of them are adding fuel to the fire. Once the fire is lit, who remembers who struck the first match?"

Fang Chen leaned against another wall, the two of them two steps apart.

He suddenly remembered seeing the same video twice a few days ago.

The first comment section was full of criticism, while the second was full of praise.

I skimmed through it, and it's basically a controversial issue. As long as the first few comments are positive, they're all praise.

If the first few comments are all negative, then it's all just insults.

I shared this example with Zhu Zilan: "The atmosphere in the comments section of the same video actually depends on the first three people who post comments. If the first person goes left, everyone else follows suit. If the first person goes right, everyone else follows suit. It's not that people actually think left or right is better; it's that people don't want to be the one who's different."

"Sometimes art is like that too," Zhu Zilan said. "The first batch of critics determines the attitude of everyone else. It's not about whether the work is good or not, but what the first person said. It has nothing to do with the art itself."

"A lot of art today is like this; it's essentially hype. Artists create works, curators plan exhibitions, critics write reviews, and collectors buy them. You think they're doing different things, but they're actually doing the same thing: pushing something into a certain position so that everyone feels it's perfectly natural for it to be there."

"You don't believe me? Try a different group of critics, a different group of collectors, a different museum. The same work, placed in different contexts, can have a value that differs by a hundredfold. This isn't art; it's finance."

Fang Chen now understood why she had called him here.

"And what about your exhibition?"

Zhu Zilan thought for a moment, then looked up.

"It's the same. But at least I let people with real talent in. I don't just look at fame, I look at the work itself. Although he didn't photograph anything world-renowned, just old houses, cracks, weeds, and stoves, he photographed them seriously. He squatted in the ruins for a whole month, going there every day, taking pictures every day, coming back to organize them, and going back the next day. Would you say his work is art? Some people say yes, some people say no. But would you say he was serious about doing something? He was."

"So you're not just creating hype?"

"I'm also creating hype," Zhu Zilan said quickly and softly, "but I don't create bad hype."

Fang Chen couldn't help but laugh.

Zhu Zilan didn't continue the topic. She led Fang Chen forward, saying, "Let's go, I'll see you to the door."

As the two walked out, a staff member called Zhu Zilan over as they passed the front desk and handed her a stack of documents.

Zhu Zilan took the document, flipped through it, signed it, and returned it with swift and decisive movements.

She repeats this process ten times a day, and every movement has been honed to its shortest length over time.

Fang Chen waited beside her, watching her sign the document with her head slightly tilted to the side. Her hair, held in place by a hairpin, was pulled back tightly, revealing a small section of her nape, which was dazzlingly white.

"I'll invite you again next time there's a good exhibition."

"Aren't you afraid I'll say I don't understand it again?"

"You say your piece, I'll say mine," Zhu Zilan said calmly, as if it were something that didn't need discussion. "I need you to tell me so I can know how others see things."

Fang Chen nodded.

"Okay. I'm leaving."

"Um."

Fang Chen turned and walked towards the parking lot.

He walked a few steps and heard Zhu Zilan calling his name from behind.

Fang Chen stopped and turned around. Zhu Zilan stood on the steps, the sunlight behind her casting a thin layer of gold on her silhouette, making her black dress appear even darker in the backlight.

"You just said that the first three people in the comments section of that video determined the attitude of everyone else."

"Um."

"What do you think the first three people will say about your exhibition?"

Fang Chen thought for a moment:

"The first person said you put a lot of effort into the curation. The second said the artist you chose has potential. The third asked when you'd hold the next one."

Zhu Zilan stood on the steps and looked at him for two seconds.

Then she laughed, and this time the smile didn't fade.