He breathed a sigh of relief and returned a smile.
“Sit down and paint.” he said.
“Okay.” Hua Jie sat down, picked up a newly mounted canvas she had prepared in the morning, glanced at the far right of the large window, and quietly settled down.
Everyone was quiet, as if focusing on their own work.
In reality, everyone was covertly observing Hua Jie, silently speculating about her conversation with the teacher.
Shen Mo sat reading for a while longer, then placed “One Hundred Years of Solitude” upside down on the couch and got up to head to the kitchen.
Seeing Shen Jiaru and Zhao Xiaolei return to the sunroom to drink tea, he brewed a cup of milk and strolled up behind Hua Jie.
The girl was intently observing the landscape in front of her, thinking about what to paint and how to frame it.
Suddenly, a weight landed on her head, and she looked up to find Shen Mo’s hand resting on her head.
“Here.” He handed her the milk.
“For me?” she raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, drink up.” he said softly.
The girl took the milk, smiling and giving him a sidelong glance.
This was the first time he had ever offered her something to drink, and it was a cup of hot milk he had brewed himself.
“This is the first time I’ve made milk for anyone, even Old Shen has never had this honor,” he said, giving her a look and pulling up a stool next to her, “Be careful, it’s hot.”
“Wow, then I must sip it slowly and cherish it,” she exaggeratedly cradled the cup of milk.
“I’m this nice to you, it won’t shorten your life, right?” he quipped, crossing his legs.
“…” It was just a cup of milk, couldn’t she even accept this little blessing? Nonsense! “Even if you, the young master, washed my feet, I could handle it!”
Shen Mo raised an eyebrow and glared at her, about to tease her, when Shen Jiaru’s voice came from behind them:
“What about washing feet?”
“…” Hua Jie looked up in surprise, only to realize that Shen Jiaru had come to get some tea from the storage cabinet and had caught the tail end of her remark.
Her face instantly turned red.
“Hahaha.” Shen Mo couldn’t hold back his laughter, amused by her embarrassment.
“Don’t disturb her painting,” Shen Jiaru said, patting his son’s shoulder before walking back to the sunroom.
After having his laugh, Shen Mo didn’t leave. Instead, he asked:
“What did the old man say to you in the sunroom?”
Little Potato had been moved to tears and sat in deep contemplation for an hour; he had seen it and couldn’t just ignore it.
He had to know the details to be at ease.
Hua Jie raised an eyebrow, meeting the young man’s gaze. He looked at her intently, his expression serious, showing his determination.
Putting down her brush, she didn’t ponder for long and in a voice only the two of them could hear, recounted everything Teacher Shen had said, integrating it with her personal situation, to Shen Mo.
The young man listened attentively without interrupting once, his eyes occasionally glancing at Hua Jie, and then out the window, as if he was processing her words more deeply.
For a few minutes after Hua Jie finished speaking, Shen Mo remained silent.
The two sat in silence for nearly ten minutes before the young man finally looked up and softly said:
“He might not be a very good father, but he’s a decent teacher.”
Hua Jie was initially taken aback, then broke into a radiant smile.
It was good to see this. The young man always harbored deep resentment towards his father, yet he was willing to fully consider her perspective on this matter and acknowledge his father’s role as a mentor.
This kind of empathy, putting oneself in another’s shoes, is not something everyone is capable of offering.
Hua Jie looked into the young man’s indifferent eyes and saw sincerity.
In that moment, she suddenly felt like the happiest person in the world.
To have a mentor like Shen Jiaru, who is like a father, and a friend like Shen Mo, who considers her feelings and resonates with her emotions.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly.
“Why thank me? It’s not like I’m the one who guided you in painting,” he pouted, holding a grudge and even feeling a bit jealous of the father figure that Hua Jie shared a pursuit with.
“Then, thank you for the milk,” she said, taking a big gulp.
Watching her cheeks flush with happiness, the young man’s heart warmed too.
“All that stuff my dad said about being vigilant when things are going well, just take it as nonsense.”
“In this world, not everyone can foresee the future or plan ahead for it.”
“Not everyone needs to predict the safety of their next step in order to move forward. Living with such a sense of crisis is really too anxiety-inducing.”
“There’s really no need for that.”
“…Ah, ‘being vigilant when things are going well’, you summarized it so well!” Hua Jie had felt that there was a proverb that could encapsulate her teacher’s words, but she couldn’t think of it.
That’s so like Shen Mo!
So impressive!
The young man glared at her. Was that her focus?
Was the point of his words that proverb? A summary of his father’s advice?
Not at all!
He tapped her canvas to remind her to focus, then continued his earnest advice:
“Life is full of uncertainties, and even the strongest philosophers can’t predict all dangers and difficulties in advance. If it weren’t for his trustworthy and somewhat successful and wise guidance, you wouldn’t be able to find the right direction or path even if you racked your brains thinking about being vigilant.”
“However, his advice as an elder, about shedding craftiness, forgetting imitation and techniques, painting with your heart, and finding your own style, that’s really good.”
“Just listen to that part, the rest is just an old man bragging in front of you about the so-called wisdom he’s accumulated over the decades.”
Shen Mo suddenly patted her head, his expression unusually serious.
“…Ah, is that so?” Hua Jie stared in confusion.
“Trust me, I’ve read more philosophy books than he’s painted pictures,” Shen Mo snorted coldly, his face full of disdain for the great painter Mr. Shen, with an ‘I’ve seen right through him’ expression.
“I still think it makes a lot of sense,” Hua Jie protested quietly.
“This is what sounds reasonable, but actually has no practical significance. All philosophical speculations that stray from methodology are just blowing smoke and talking nonsense!” Shen Mo emphasized again with a frown.
“…” Men and boys sure love to talk about philosophy.
Hua Jie blinked, her expression hesitant.
“Listen to me, forget all his bragging, just focus on the latter part that actually has some practical guidance,” Shen Mo said, then threatened with a frown, “Got it?”
“…Oh.” She nodded weakly.
These father and son…
Shen Mo looked down and noticed the A4 paper under Hua Jie’s drawing, which had Shen Jiaru’s words written on it.
He grabbed it, and before Hua Jie could react, he tore up the parts about ‘being vigilant when things are going well’ and other philosophical rhetoric, crumpled them up, and stuffed them into his pocket.
“Hey— you—” Hua Jie protested.
Shen Mo glared threateningly, then patted her head, “Focus on your painting, keep it up!” He pointed to the remaining words on the paper that read ‘forget… subtract… remove the craftiness…’ and other phrases.
Then he slapped his hands, picked up his stool, and walked away.
Now that he knew what his dad had said to Little Potato, and understood why her emotions were fluctuating and why she had pondered alone for an hour, he felt reassured.
Content.
The young man resumed his leisurely pace, returned to the couch, picked up “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” and continued reading.
Qian Chong and Fang Shaojun, however, grew even more curious.
What exactly had the teacher told Hua Jie?
…
An hour later, they had completed over half of their first landscape painting of the afternoon.
Shen Jiaru asked the three students to place their paintings on the easel and began to critique each one based on their progress.
Hua Jie’s painting, as it was just a draft, was not brought up for joint critique.
Listening to the discussions, praises, criticisms, and tips about the three paintings, Hua Jie was exceptionally quiet.
She didn’t focus on the technical aspects of Fang Shaojun and the others’ paintings but instead reflected on the personality and character of each artwork.
It was then that she realized how richly expressive Qian Chong’s dark, cool style was.
Whether depicting a sunlit glacier or frost under the cold light of morning, his paintings carried an intense sharpness typical of adolescence, along with a hint of cruelty and gloom that she couldn’t quite define.
It’s as if beneath this young man’s unpleasant exterior, there lies a heart that despises and loathes everything about the world.
This must be Qian Chong’s soul in his paintings. Even though there’s no positivity, no brightness, his works possess a strong individual character and an impactful, memorable quality.
Like the artists who portray ugliness in later times, they too are sought after by many.
In this world, any emotion that can evoke a human resonance can be recognized.
Whether it brings an elevated beauty or touches the dark recesses of the viewer’s heart, helping to release negative emotions, it can all become a unique piece of art.
Looking at Lu Yunfei’s paintings, they are meticulously detailed to the extreme, with a strong pursuit of realism.
Some parts are so lifelike they could be mistaken for photographs, a testament to immense patience.
And in this finely detailed delineation, each brushstroke conveys a deep-seated gentleness.
Viewing his works, even amidst the harsh cold wind and a palette of cool tones, one still feels an inner peace and softness.
This is probably Lu Yunfei’s style, his unique soul in painting.
Hua Jie took a deep breath, feeling the pressure intensify.
Studying painting alongside geniuses is truly overwhelming.
She pursed her lips and observed Fang Shaojun’s paintings.
Strangely… from the warm light in the paintings, she sensed the tender heart of a young girl, and from the cool light, she tasted a hint of bitterness.
When Fang Shaojun paints with warm colors, her strokes are free and joyful, as if her brush is dancing a waltz.
But when she uses cool colors, her strokes become jagged, like placing mosaics, conveying a sense of delay and difficulty, like the contradictory pain of drunkenly venting post-heartbreak.
Yes, contradictory.
Fang Shaojun’s paintings often made her feel a sense of dissonance, as if arrogance hid insecurity, joy masked bitterness.
Having so much, yet unable to attain what is desired.
Hua Jie exhaled deeply and turned to look at her own canvas resting on the chair.
What about her?
In her paintings, which strokes truly belonged to her, and weren’t just learned from the various teachers she had encountered across two lifetimes or scraped together from imitating the works of masters?
And which expressions truly originate from her own emotions, rather than learned from Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” to express fear, pain, and anxiety, or from Impressionist painter Renoir’s works to express warmth and happiness?
Closing her eyes, she massaged her brow, then silently returned to her seat, holding her canvas, staring at the scene she intended to paint, engulfed in a long silence.
That afternoon, Hua Jie only painted a very loose and simple watercolor.
When her painting was displayed on the small easel, Fang Shaojun noticed that the brilliant colors that she had always envied, and even been jealous of in Hua Jie’s work were gone. The showy strokes and various surprising techniques were also absent.
She frowned slightly. Was this underdeveloped painting really the result of a one-hour conversation with the teacher followed by an afternoon’s work?
She wanted to make a mocking remark, but as she considered her words, Fang Shaojun suddenly raised her eyebrows.
Stepping back unconsciously, she squinted slightly and began to scrutinize Hua Jie’s painting more seriously.
Then, she realized, although the painting was muted, it had an oddly expansive feel with very few strokes that somehow outlined an entire snowy plain.
There were hardly any details, yet looking at the whole painting, critical areas had been core-sketches.
Looking over and over, scrutinizing carefully.
Fang Shaojun’s brow furrowed, her expression becoming more serious.
This painting was not of low completion; in fact, it was highly complete.
Although Hua Jie did not deliberately emphasize various depth relationships, she had placed key points within the few strokes.
Moreover, as one looked on, a sense of tranquility began to emerge.
The painting was still, the view was still, the heart was still.
Muted, as if shedding superficial glamor, a girl stripped of neon and elaborate attire.
Peaceful, like a girl in plain white clothes, warmly dressed, sitting under the rising sun, accompanied by the snowy plains and frost, sipping hot tea, sip by sip.
Biting her lower lip, Fang Shaojun stared at Hua Jie’s painting, transfixed.
She vaguely sensed Hua Jie’s significant change, what she truly sought.
And she seemed to guess something about the direction of the teacher’s conversation with Hua Jie.
When Qian Chong couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows incredulously and asked Hua Jie, “What are you painting?”, Fang Shaojun turned her head, scoffed, and rolled her eyes at Qian Chong, coldly saying:
“So foolish, you understand nothing.”
“?” After a brief exchange of glances with Fang Shaojun, Qian Chong frowned and looked back at Hua Jie’s painting.
In the following minutes, he didn’t speak again, seemingly having perceived something as well.