Tokyo Sound

The waiter came over and served the appetizers and red wine. Whether it was the flamed scallops, black truffles or pan-fried foie gras, they were all classic French appetizers. The waitress also worked part-time as a sommelier, responsible for opening and pouring the wine to ensure it was served at the best temperature.

"Cheers~" Risa Taneda raised her goblet with a sense of ceremony. Although she was wearing casual clothes and looked very approachable as a Q-version dinosaur, her table manners and temperament were far different from her previous cute and second-year image.

Yin Ze also remembered the surprise and tranquility this person brought to him when they first met in the art museum.

Wine glasses clinked, making a clinking sound. Knives and forks rose and fell, enjoying the expensive delicacies.

"Let's chat for a while?" the girl said.

"Haven't we been chatting all the time?" the man responded.

"Let's talk about things other than work?" the girl asked.

"That's right. I never discuss work in my personal time." The man said happily.

"You seem very knowledgeable? You answered Mr. Moriki's questions today without even thinking."

"Ha, this knowledge is a tax refund from fate... I have put in very little effort on my part."

"How about art history?" Risa Taneda asked curiously.

"Not bad, maybe just slightly better than you." Yin Ze tried to be conservative.

"What? I'm a professional." Taneda Risa was unhappy, then she realized something and whispered, "...Although I have indeed given up and am not qualified to compare."

"How can you give it up? It still belongs to you, but it's sealed for the time being." Yin Ze said calmly, "Besides, painting is so unusual. If you leave it alone for a while, your hand will become stiff. But when you let go, you may be able to figure out many key points that you didn't understand before, and your mind will become clear all of a sudden."

"you sure?"

"I am sure."

"why?"

"I've let it go before, but when I picked it up again, I became even stronger." Yin Ze said slowly.

"You've given up too..." Risa Taneda was a little surprised.

"Yes, a long time ago, when I was a student, I was full of longing for Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance. The city treasures nearly seven centuries of human miracles created by masters, and the air is filled with the breath of art." Yin Ze recalled, "I was still worried about my Italian language and worried that I would not be able to study there. I was even more entangled in whether to apply to Florence or Turin [Note: Florence Academy of Fine Arts and Turin Academy of Fine Arts, both of which are world-class art schools]."

"and after."

"I stopped worrying about it later because I couldn't pass the test and I didn't have to tell the difference between single and double letters like BB, B; P, PP."

"Actually, Repin is not bad either. Russia's art subjects are also very strong." Risa Taneda answered reluctantly.

"Indeed, Russian has become even more weird." Yin Ze was sure.

"By the way, which art studio did you study in?" Risa Taneda wanted to know where this person grew up.

"You have definitely never heard of it, not in Japan. In fact, it shouldn't be called a studio, or a training institution would be more appropriate," said Yin Ze.

"mechanism?"

"Yes, it is the same as many private schools for college entrance examinations. It is a sprint training base for the college entrance examination."

"I seem to have seen a similar crash course... Can the changes it brings to people be so drastic? Did you develop your level there?" Risa Taneda said uncertainly.

"To be honest, what was mainly taught and what I learned were test-taking skills. I know what level of effect I need to achieve and what score I can get. I remember some general color mixing formulas. Even when I draw a jar, I follow the process of drawing one stroke to the left and one stroke to the right, and using white to highlight the mouth of the bottle. As for the reflection of light and shadow, light and color theory, the shaping of blocks and the contrast of the picture, I have no idea about these." Yin Ze said honestly.

"Should we pursue the result first and then trace the truth?"

"The pursuit of results is certain. As for whether or not they will explore art itself later, it is no longer important for most art students."

"Why?"

"Because most people just use it as a springboard, a supplement to the orthodox college entrance examination, and a shortcut that seems to be easier than improving their math, physics and chemistry scores."

"Isn't this just like diving from one quagmire into another abyss?" Risa Taneda was quite puzzled.

"Well, it's just that before jumping in, no one knew it was a trap. Including me." Yin Ze shrugged, "Ms. Zhongtian, you have been interested since childhood, gradually accepted guidance, slowly digested the knowledge, took the test step by step, and was admitted to the art school?"

"Yes." The girl nodded.

"That's really stable. The time it took me from laying the foundation to taking the test must have been shorter than yours," the man said. "Only five months."

"Not even half a year?" Taneda Risa was a little surprised, "Is your talent so strong?"

"It has nothing to do with my talent. I am a real mediocre person. In the end, I just barely passed the standard line. As for the hard work, I always lack sleep. It's really to the point where I can fall asleep while standing." The man took a sip of wine.

After arriving at the basement with a mess of graphite before 8 o'clock, the security guard in his 40s will calmly lock the door and will not open it until lunchtime or the evening. However, you can still squeeze out through the back door, but there is a tied wolfhound there. If you are not careful, your buttocks will be kissed painfully by the dog.

Therefore, frequent trips to the bathroom became the brothers' favorite thing to do, not because they were ill, but because they were in a closed space, surrounded by mechanical and repetitive sounds, and there were not many places to sit except in front of the easel. Going to the quiet bathroom without the rustling sound of pencils and reading the news was one of the few options to temporarily relax and escape.

"Do you think drawing is a cool thing?" Yin Ze's fork drew meaningless circles on the plate.

"This is a little hard to judge." Risa Taneda did not give a definite answer.

"Do you know Modigliani?" Yin Ze suddenly said.

"He's a painter, I have an impression of him." Taneda Risa dug out vague knowledge from her mind, "It seems that he enjoys almost the same level of praise as Picasso, but he is remembered as a typical example of an unfortunate genius."

"A century ago, when Modigliani was drinking to drown his sorrows in his shabby studio in Paris, Picasso, who was three years older than him, already had many fans and his paintings were sold at high prices. The former eventually died like a tramp in a clinic on the street in Paris, singing poems from his hometown in his native Italian before dying. His wife Jenny, who was about to give birth for the second time, jumped from the fifth-floor window 31 hours after her husband's death. Her skull shattered on the street stones. The 24-year-old Jenny followed her husband with her unborn baby, leaving behind their one-year-old daughter, who became an orphan." Yin Ze briefly recounted the life of the deceased.

Picasso attended the simple funeral in the heavy snow. He was the other extreme of the man buried in the tomb. He was naturally extremely brilliant and was the only painter in history who was alive to witness his works being collected in the Louvre.

And that unfortunate genius was only respected after his death.

The coffee shop owner hurriedly rummaged through the boxes and cabinets to find his works, because art dealers were eager to get them, but the works had been eaten by rats because they were piled together with sausages.

Contemporary critics belatedly realized that Modigliani's sketches were elegant and graceful, his lines would never touch water, they were lines of the soul that were not stained by blood, and even Siamese cats had to avoid his lines [Note: Because Siamese cats are cleaner than other types of cats, they will wipe the parts they think are dirty (such as paintings)].

However, the skeleton could not hear these things. In the end, all he knew was a cold and dirty home, cigarettes that made his lungs hurt, and alcohol and drugs that numbed his mind. His beloved, who was his model, also died, following him. Painting was the only stable element in his life.

"I have seen a movie about him with the same name before. I saw it in an institution. At that time, I had already given up hope on this path. I knew nothing about art history, did not understand the significance of classics, and of course did not know who this person was. So I had no idea about the many flaws and setting loopholes in this movie. I just thought it was beautiful in form, so an outsider might enjoy watching it. It just so happens that I am that outsider, a weak outsider holding a pen." Yin Ze murmured.

"I've seen it too." Risa Taneda paused and then said.

“Have you seen it…?” Yin Ze looked up in surprise.

"Well, the director didn't want to make this movie into a documentary, so many historical facts were changed. I think it's okay." Risa Taneda looked out the window, her thoughts drifting away, "Paris in the early 20th century was really a fascinating era. Countless geniuses emerged, various artistic ideas collided, and people lived a bohemian life."

"I have forgotten all of these, except for one passage that touched me deeply. I would always think of it inexplicably afterwards," said Yin Ze.

"Could it be that a genius died young?" Risa Taneda guessed.

"No, guess again." Yin Ze looked at the girl.

"Picasso was actually a fat man with a beer belly?" Risa Taneda frowned.

"...No." Yin Ze was embarrassed.

"At the end of the Paris annual painting competition, Modi's work finally shocked everyone, and everyone applauded him?" Risa Taneda thought about it.

"Not really." Yin Ze shook his head.

"What scene touched you most?" Risa Taneda asked, leaning closer.

“It is the darkness before dawn, before life gains glory.”

Yin Ze looked straight at the delicate face nearby and spoke slowly, retelling a plot.

"The eldest daughter was sent to a shelter, just because of his incompetence as a father. Modi ran in the endless rain, and finally walked into the bar, soaking wet. He picked up the leftover wine that belonged to someone else on the table, toasted Picasso who was sitting far away, and then wrote his name on the competition form on the wall. He was no longer confused, and looked around at his colleagues with a provocative look, and finally stared at Picasso. Picasso also walked down slowly, took the pen from Modi's hand, and signed his name right after him. The bar was instantly bustling with people, and those who knew this unlucky drowned chicken and those who didn't were all applauding and cheering."

Risa Taneda also had some memories. She had just watched the movie by chance, and she remembered that part was also the turning point. When the male protagonist pushed the door open and strode in, and the intense piano sound rang out, the emotions that had been suppressed for a long time were finally released.

After that, the film is constantly interspersed with what he calls the things that left a deep impression on him.

That was the process of painters across the city preparing for battle.

Someone is sitting in a messy workshop, his wife is sewing clothes beside him, while he is staring at a rotten animal skeleton; someone is setting up an easel on the rooftop; someone is caressing the body and curves of the female model passionately, but there is only obsession in his eyes, without a trace of lust; someone is huddled on a narrow bed in deep thought; someone is looking up at the skylight in the spacious and luxurious studio.

A hoarse 8

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5

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7,?

6

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3!,

,"

4,

4

'!2 The elegant female voice continued to sing, somewhat like a hymn in a church.

Everyone started to paint, from slow to intense, from peaceful to wild. They had their eyes wide open, cigarettes in their mouths, and drank liquor in big gulps. Some were blocked in their thoughts and kicked over the easel, some were impatient and looked crazy.

There is no dialogue in this section, no sound other than singing, but almost everyone can feel the burning temperature, the emotions are being released, the distressed groans and unbridled laughter seem to be mixed together.

The fanatics are spontaneously combusting.

In a dark corner of the classroom, eighteen-year-old Yin Ze huddled in a flimsy plastic chair, watching the scene.

"I thought they were so handsome and powerful," the man whispered.

In fact, those painters were not handsome at all. Some of them were workers, some were butchers, and some even had to sleep on the streets.

Sweat was pouring down their faces, their hair was greasy, their clothes were tattered, they were holding burnt cigarettes in their mouths, their eyes were squinting, and they would occasionally spit out smoke ferociously, cheap liquor was dripping from the corners of their mouths, they were dirty, paint was spilled everywhere, some people squeezed the paint directly on their hands, even the most respectable Picasso among them was biting on a cigar, looking ugly, and on the verge of collapse.

They were all dirty, but strangely looked extremely noble, as if each of them was talking and communicating with God, so they were so unruly but had burning eyes.

When everyone finished painting, covered in wounds, they all broke the pens in their hands and threw them away, laughing loudly, like the satisfaction and relief of knights who had fought a holy war and had no regrets in the future.

It was an arrogant revelry, devoid of elegance and grace, yet so handsome that it was hard to imagine why, so handsome to the extreme.

"I don't understand those things. Because I have neither talent nor a favorable starting point. I wonder what Modigliani would have thought when he was alive. He must have thought that the so-called master is nothing more than a businessman covered in the veil of art, and that skills, connotations, and culture are nothing more than decorations to give the work a beautiful layer of gold?" Yin Ze laughed softly.

But only in that paragraph did the man admit that he had been assimilated silently.

It has nothing to do with ability, wealth, or good health.

The gesture of burning oneself and releasing dazzling light and heat is enough to make people intoxicated.

"At that moment, the whole city of Paris was filled with the sound of swords and all the sharp blades made a sizzling sound as they were quenched... I used to hear that kind of sound often, and I wondered if I was also so proud and brilliant at that time." Yin Ze frowned.

I'm not a very outstanding person.

The math test paper can only answer multiple-choice questions is not a joke, but a real thing. Even so, even the luck was very bad, only 10 out of 3 questions were answered correctly, and the total score was 15, which shocked the whole grade.

When I was a student, the most outrageous thing I did was to climb over the wall to a black Internet cafe to play online games, smoke in the toilet, and compete with the director of the moral education department. At that time, it was still far away from reality, and I didn't understand what it meant to be helpless. When I knew it in the future, I could only say calmly, "So that's how it is."

Men often feel fortunate that they have been to such a place, surrounded by such people, discussing techniques and standards every day. Standing under the shade of a tree, they will look up at the branches and think about the boundary between light and dark. Standing on the bus, they will wonder if this dynamic scene will be easier to draw.

Suddenly, there was only one thing left in my life, working towards a goal. I forgot to eat, and every time I tried my best, I felt like I was walking on thin ice. I was worried about the upcoming final exam, as if I was facing a trial.

In the end, I actually forgot that my original intention of coming here was to live a relaxing life.

Since handing in my test paper, I have forgotten about eating and have no appetite at all. Instead, my stomach feels like vomiting. The weakness and discomfort in my body deepen my despair.

Obviously.

I obviously tried so hard.

Read books carefully, think carefully, follow dogmas carefully, practice carefully until late, check for omissions and fill in the gaps carefully, observe carefully, accept criticism carefully, and always be attentive.

But why, my hands cannot grasp any light other than my own.

And when I go out, everything around me is dark.

God is unfair.

God is evil.

God has no mercy.

God does not exist at all.

My whole body was burning but it was still useless.