On Tuesday at noon, the aunt had just finished cooking and called Shen Jiaru to eat. He had barely sat down when the phone suddenly rang.
Who is this now?
Calling without checking the time, should’ve chosen a better moment.
I was just about to eat… no sense of timing.
“Hello?” His tone was not very warm as he answered the call.
“Teacher Shen, this is Wang Jian from Tsinghua Academy of Fine Arts. Regarding the paintings from your four students, why has one student submitted two extra pieces?” Wang Jian didn’t even start with any small talk; clearly, the situation was urgent, and he was too anxious to bother with politeness or courtesy. His voice was filled with sadness and urgency:
“We are about to enter the selection for the top three positions, and six of the top ten paintings are the ones you sent over, this—”
Although Wang Jian’s tone was full of reproach, Shen Jiaru couldn’t help but let out a ‘pfft’ and laughed.
Wow!
All of them got in.
Considering Wang Jian’s frustrated mood, he quickly covered the phone to prevent Wang Jian from hearing his unsympathetic joy.
But it was obviously too late to hide his emotions; Wang Jian clearly heard his laughter.
Teacher Shen actually laughed!
He could still laugh???
“Teacher Shen, you’ve really put us in a difficult position!” Wang Jian frowned. Now all the judges for the finals were being placated by his colleagues with a meal of roasted duck, just to keep them from exploding into a huge negative mood over a morning’s wasted effort.
But in the afternoon, they have to reselect the top three and even reshuffle the top ten, which is really…
This Biennale exhibition is turning into a disaster!
Shen Jiaru cleared his throat.
Hua Jie, upon finding out that her two extra paintings were sent to the jury by mistake due to Zhao Xiaolei not checking the number of pieces, already knew what had happened.
He had meant to call Wang Jian, but once he started painting, he completely forgot about it.
Lately, he has been too immersed in a creative state that seemed to finally have broken through a bottleneck, neglecting many things.
But would Shen Jiaru admit that all this was Zhao Xiaolei’s and his fault?
Of course not!
With a quick thought, he cleverly preempted Wang Jian before he could say anything more detrimental:
“There are simply too many of Hua Jie’s paintings worthy of competition and exhibition. I thought of sending them to your jury to help with the selection.”
“How come your organizing team didn’t check the paintings when they were received?”
His tone was even somewhat stern, filled with doubts about the Qingmei Biennale Exhibition.
Faced with Shen Jiaru’s preemptive strike, Wang Jian was completely stunned, and it took him a moment to respond:
“Each participant is supposed to submit one painting each. To maintain the fairness of the competition, we cover each painting as soon as it’s received… We really didn’t expect such a situation to happen.”
It was indeed a lack of experience on their part in organizing such competitions.
“Hmm.” Shen Jiaru turned to look at the food that was gradually cooling down and losing its steam, and responded faintly.
He was a veteran with decades of experience who had faced various troubles and difficulties over the past twenty years, and he did not show any signs of panic or annoyance like Wang Jian.
Yet, it was his indifference that gave Wang Jian a sense of arrogance and dissatisfaction.
The impulsivity and agitation that were present at the start of the call were quenched by a cold splash of water, calming him down instantly.
Thinking of Shen Jiaru on the other end of the phone, a prominent artist currently pursued by the domestic and international market, his heart rate suddenly became unstable.
He had been too emotional, losing the proper respect and politeness.
“I’m sorry, Teacher Shen, it was an oversight by the competition committee, and it has caused you trouble,” Wang Jian humbly admitted, his tone softened significantly—a flexibility honed from years in academia and the Beijing art circles.
“Hmm.” Shen Jiaru responded again with a short hum.
Through the phone, Wang Jian could feel the almost suffocating pressure.
Taking a deep breath, he spoke again:
“Teacher Shen, how do you think we should handle this? Of Hua Jie’s three paintings, which one do you think is the best?”
He needed to gauge Shen Jiaru’s opinion.
Shen Jiaru pursed his lips, knowing that this was not the time to speak carelessly.
What if in the competition committee’s judgement, “Countless Selves in the Ice Crystals” ranks lower than “The Carpenter” or “Youth Waiting for the Bus to Return Home”?
So, it might be best to keep whichever ranks highest.
But maintaining his dignity, he certainly wouldn’t make his preference as clear as though he cared greatly about the ranking…
He must remain reserved, yes, definitely need to keep some reserve.
“If a work is excellent, it will undoubtedly be ranked accordingly. Of course, the fairness of the competition must also be considered, and I respect the rules set by the Qingmei Biennale,” said Shen Jiaru, his voice heavy. Although his words were unobjectionable, his tone carried an inexplicable authority.
Wang Jian pondered for a moment before responding with a smile:
“Alright, I’ll handle it as quickly as possible. Once the results are ready, I’ll discuss them with Teacher Shen first.”
“Thank you for the trouble,” added Shen Jiaru.
“Okay, let’s leave it at that for now. I’ll call you later this evening. Goodbye, Teacher Shen.”
Wang Jian hastily hung up the phone. Shen Jiaru gave the receiver a stern look before putting it back in its place.
Turning to the dining table, he noticed that the dishes had nearly gone cold. He frowned and walked over as the housekeeper asked:
“Teacher Shen, shall I warm it up for you?”
“Yes,” he nodded and sat down.
Reheating the food certainly wouldn’t taste as good as when it was freshly cooked. Wang Jian’s call couldn’t have come at a worse time.
But… to think that all four children’s paintings made it into the top ten, tsk tsk… And even Hua Jie’s two accidental pieces were included.
What exactly does the competition prioritize? Style, or technical skills? Thoughtfulness, or the innovativeness of the strokes?
As the housekeeper served the reheated dishes, Shen Jiaru leaned back in his chair, his gaze lowered in contemplation, a subtle, indescribable smile playing on his lips.
…
After hanging up the call, Wang Jian stood there, troubled, for a long time.
He urgently convened a meeting. While the judges dined on Peking duck, they grimly discussed solutions over their bread.
If they removed one of Hua Jie’s paintings, leaving only one…
But which one to keep?
Each of Hua Jie’s three paintings had its proponents among the bigwigs, each with compelling reasons; removing any one of them would likely cause controversy.
Teacher Shen Jiaru would probably be displeased as well.
Frustrated, conflicted, anxious.
Finally, a young teacher had a brilliant idea, suggesting a very clever operation.
At last, the entire organizing committee agreed, and the problem was smoothly resolved.
They decided to categorize Hua Jie’s three paintings as a series, newly titled “Growth · Metamorphosis · Butterfly,” symbolizing a painter’s rebirth through the three works.
The gouache painting “Youth Waiting for the Bus to Return Home” symbolizes growth; at this point, she has not yet found her own path. The watercolor painting “Carpenter” represents metamorphosis, having chosen a life path dedicated to painting with watercolors, while “Countless Selves in Ice Crystals” signifies transformation into a butterfly, where, through growth and metamorphosis, the artist has perfectly transformed, becoming a wholly new self.
This interpretation is based on the completion dates of the three paintings and the analysis by the teachers, outlining the artist’s probable path of development.
Wang Jian communicated again with Shen Jiaru over the phone and received his approval.
The three paintings are ranked as one, occupying just one slot.
However, although the subsequent exhibition will display them together, they will be sold as three separate paintings.
This arrangement satisfies Teacher Shen and is considered fair in the competition structure.
Even if some might feel it’s opportunistic to compete as one painting and sell as three, any blame can be directed at Teacher Shen.
People will quietly grumble, “Ah, Teacher Shen is too cunning, his maneuver too slick.”
The organizing committee, in any case, remains fair and innocent.
To prevent future entries from submitting ten paintings as a group in the next Biennale, they could clearly stipulate that series of paintings are not allowed, and each artist may only submit one painting.
Flawless, perfect.
Qingmei Biennale Competition Committee: A valuable lesson learned!
Consequently, the original top ten expanded by two slots, allowing two more paintings to fortuitously squeeze in, becoming the new ninth and tenth places.
And Hua Jie’s “Growth · Metamorphosis · Butterfly” maintains the highest ranking among her three works, standing out among many older university students who have already started formal art education, literally outpacing them.
On December 26, 2000, a Tuesday afternoon, all judging activities for the Qingmei Biennale ended.
All 30 paintings were framed, with the top three receiving particularly lavish frames to highlight their status.
That same evening, Shen Jiaru called Hua Jie’s home.
She was alone at home, had just finished the meal her mother left for her, and was preparing to study when she received the call.
“Second place, a prize of 1000 yuan. On January 6, you and the other three will come with me to Beijing, to attend the award ceremony with the top ten, then visit various famous historical sites, museums, and art exhibitions in the capital, likely returning around the 10th.”
“We’ll take a train to Harbin on the 5th, and then fly to Beijing from there. Tomorrow, let Shen Mo bring me your ID number and other details. I’ll have Zhao Xiaolei book all the train and plane tickets. The teacher is hosting, so don’t worry about the travel and accommodation.”
“Focus on preparing for your final exams.”
After a brief introduction of the upcoming plans, Shen Jiaru hung up the phone.
There was neither praise nor excitement, as if the matter was utterly mundane, something he had anticipated all along.
Hua Jie silently ended the call and stood dazed for a long moment before suddenly letting out a loud cry.
Startled, Huanhuan, who was sleeping in its nest, leapt up with a start, bumping its head on the top of the doghouse. It yelped and ran out, looking around in panic, finding nothing amiss, then looked up and stared at its young master with a face full of grievance.
Why scare the poor dog so abruptly!
…
Since Dahua Furniture opened, Mom worked at the bathhouse during the day and helped with the accounting for Dahua Furniture and Xiaohua Furniture at night.
Dad was busy too, owing many, many bills, either carving wood or assembling furniture in the newly purchased ground floor storefront/warehouse, or overseeing work at the factory, trying to prevent the factory from stealing designs under his nose.
Both parents were very busy, striving for more wealth and a better life.
Thus, returning home at 9:30 p.m. had become the norm.
Today was no different, arriving home at 9:30 p.m. tired.
As the couple entered, they noticed pork knuckle soup simmering in the pot.
Mom lifted the lid to see the pork knuckles stewed to perfection, the milky white broth thick and fragrant—clearly, their daughter had started cooking as soon as she got home, several hours ago.
She couldn’t wait to taste it with a spoon; the rich and savory flavor instantly brightened her weary eyes.
“Did my daughter make this soup?” Mom took a small bowl, ladled some soup, and called towards Hua Jie’s room.
Hua Jie put down her book and came out, linking her arm through her mother’s, and smiling, she asked:
“Is it good?”
“When did you learn to make soup? Where did you buy the pork feet?” Mom asked as she also served herself a bowl and sat next to Dad to start drinking.
Hua Jie watched her parents sitting at the table, each holding a bowl of pork foot soup, drinking non-stop, barely pausing to speak.
Dad had finished his soup and was now gnawing on a pork foot.
Actions speak louder than words.
She smiled contentedly, suddenly feeling as if the roles had reversed, and her parents were the children.