Only he, as such a good model, could serve as such effective promotion.
After the Go class, Shen Mo carefully cradled the painting in his arms, slowing down his cycling speed to shield it from the wind and snow as he hurried home.
Upon entering the house, he immediately took down a painting of his father hanging in his study and replaced it with his own portrait.
Ever since this painting appeared in his study, he found it hard to concentrate on reading. Every now and then, he would raise his head to look at it, finding satisfaction in admiring it.
Like Narcissus from Greek mythology, unable to tear himself away from his own reflection—so was he.
…
At the Shen residence.
During dinner, Shen Jiaru walked out of his studio and noticed a painting placed on the living room sofa.
“Why did you take my painting down from the study wall?” he asked his son.
“I replaced it with a different painting,” Shen Mo replied.
“Did you buy this painting yourself?” Shen Jiaru was surprised. His son had never shown interest in art-related matters, so why suddenly buy a painting?
“No, a friend painted a half-length portrait for me,” Shen Mo explained.
Shen Jiaru frowned. His son had only been at the new school for a short time, and already had friends who could paint? He seemed to have settled in quickly.
However, how did some other random painter encroach upon his territory?
“If you wanted a painting, why didn’t you ask your father to paint one for you?” Shen Jiaru was slightly upset, especially since his son had taken down his painting and replaced it.
“You can’t paint, none of your paintings look like anything,” Shen Mo remarked, picking at his food. He sighed, expressing his dissatisfaction, comparing his father’s cooking unfavorably to Mrs. Zhou’s, while chewing reluctantly.
Shen Jiaru felt a surge of anger rise in his throat, glaring at his son for a while. Seeing no reaction from him, he simply put down his chopsticks and said, “I’ll go have a look.”
“Aren’t you going to finish your meal first?” Shen Mo raised an eyebrow and turned his head.
“I’ll eat after I’ve finished looking,” Shen Jiaru replied, already ascending the stairs.
“…,” Shen Mo hesitated for a moment, then decisively put down his chopsticks and quickly followed.
Shen Jiaru pushed open his son’s room door and immediately saw the portrait hanging on the wall.
Quite striking.
He paused for a moment, involuntarily clicked his tongue.
He thought it must be another silly and tacky painting, considering his son hadn’t inherited any aesthetic sense in painting from him.
However, upon closer inspection, he found it rather decent. Originally intending to just take a quick look and return to dinner, he took a couple of steps closer, tilting his head to carefully examine it.
There was a hint of craftsmanship, with traces of imitation from several mature painters… Hmm, why did the handling of blank spaces resemble the style of that popular teacher from the Hangzhou Academy of Fine Arts lately?
Had someone from Jinsong City visited Hangzhou for an exhibition or studied art there?
He hadn’t heard of such a person.
But upon closer examination, Shen Jiaru noticed some differences. The artist’s use of blank spaces was bolder than his peers from the Hangzhou Academy of Fine Arts, almost omitting some details to create highlights, which was quite impactful.
Quite bold.
Moreover, the style of the artist in this painting was quite inconsistent.
It appeared mature, but drew from various sources, as if the artist had extensively copied techniques from multiple famous painters.
Although the painting flowed smoothly, there was almost no unified standout personal style.
Hmm… To have such a culmination is already quite impressive.
The more Shen Jiaru looked, the more he found shadows of famous painters. How did this artist hone such skills?
After silently pondering for a while, he stepped back two steps and abandoned rationality to simply appreciate.
It’s very lifelike.
The capturing of his son’s facial features and details was spot on. What impressed him the most was the artist’s confident brushwork, evident from the painting itself, showing that the artist truly enjoyed painting. This was someone who genuinely loved to paint.
Furthermore, the use of color was truly bold.
The colors were extremely vivid and vibrant, yet these striking colors were all within specific shapes, giving the painting a sense of exuberance, like a riot of flowers in full bloom.
It perfectly matched Shen Mo’s age, with his outward enthusiasm, even a bit of recklessness, yet still captivating.
Shen Jiaru almost wanted to sigh for the beauty of youth.
The thought made him chuckle involuntarily.
A painting that could make him ignore its professional aspects and instead ponder the feelings it evoked in people was already a successful work.
“The art teacher at No. 1 High School actually paints so well.” Even in Jinsong, this small town, there were hidden talents.
“It’s not our school’s teacher, it’s my deskmate.” Shen Mo had been observing his father’s expression. Hearing praise from his father, who was usually proud and looked down on others’ paintings, he couldn’t help but smirk, feeling a sense of victory over his father.
Although he hadn’t quite figured out what exactly he had won, he couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. Leaning against the door frame, he relaxed his hands into his pockets, even feeling like tapping his leg.
Could a painting sell for millions?
Foreigners clamoring to buy?
Top universities across the country begging for him to be a guest professor?
Not very impressive, huh?
Didn’t expect a painting from a freshman in high school would make you admire it.
Shen Mo glanced sideways at his father, who was still looking at the painting, unable to resist provoking him:
“How about it? Is it qualified to replace your paintings?”
Is Little Potato’s painting skill heaven-defying?
Actually getting recognition from his old man.
Shen Jiaru completely ignored his son’s antics, instead incredulously asking:
“Your deskmate? How old is she?”
“About 15,” he replied.
“When she grows to your age, won’t she be better than you?”
Shen Jiaru turned and punched his son’s shoulder, “It’s not like you painted it, so why are you showing off?”
“Your deskmate is focused solely on honing her technique, only seeing others’ painting methods, but not engaging in independent thinking. Continuing like this, she will become a very skilled painter, capable of supporting herself quite well.”
“But wanting to become like me? That’s impossible.”
“However…”
“However what?” Shen Mo asked.
“If she can find the emotional connection between her heart and her paintbrush, using her effortless skill for deeper, personal expression, her achievements might even exceed mine,” Shen Jiaru clicked his tongue.
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand,” Shen Mo frowned.
But for the first time, his father had so much to say to him.
In the past, they barely had anything in common to talk about, offering each other simple concerns when they met, and then running out of words.
Looking into his father’s eyes, he saw a pure and devoted passion, like starlight.
Suddenly, it was as though he had opened a door between them, seemingly understanding his father a little better.
Shen Jiaru did not notice his son scrutinizing him, his thoughts deep in his favorite pursuits. He organized his words before saying:
“Just like a child, who can compose a poem with the spirit of ‘Geese, geese, geese, necks curved to the sky in song’ because he possesses the most innocent eyes to observe the world and poetic sensibility.
“Many people are profoundly learned, far more than a child with memorized poems, classics, and scriptures. But upon seeing a goose, they might recall poems written by others about it, yet they themselves cannot compose a single line.
“I fear the painter of this painting might end up the same way.”
“…Is it really that bad?” Shen Mo frowned, his good mood fading.
“No, no, not bad at all, it’s already quite impressive.
“The worst kind, is the one who sees a goose and thinks, ‘I wonder if it tastes better roasted or stewed,'” Shen Jiaru continued, then added:
“But you’ve mostly been deceived.”
“What?” Shen Mo raised an eyebrow, wondering what he had been deceived about.
“It’s impossible for a 15-year-old boy to have painted this, it must be the work of a parent or a teacher,” Shen Jiaru asserted confidently.
Even if one has been painting since birth, a 15-year-old couldn’t possibly be this skilled.
“Ha.” Shen Mo patted his own father on the shoulder.
“?” Shen Jiaru.
“It’s a girl, a 15-year-old girl.” Shen Mo dropped the bombshell:
“I was the model, watching her paint it with my own eyes.”
“…” Shen Jiaru’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched his son walk down the stairs, stunned.
The old artist’s rationality was deeply shaken.
…
Back at the dinner table, Shen Jiaru took a couple of bites, incredulous:
“Did she really paint it? At 15?”
“Really.” Shen Mo stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth, suddenly feeling that his father, who previously preferred to be immersed in his own world and not talkative, was actually quite agreeable.
“Impossible… How old was she when she started learning to paint?” Shen Jiaru asked again.
“How would I know.”
“Who did she learn painting from?”
“A teacher from an art class at the youth center…”
“Just one teacher?”
“What else?”
“There should be many teachers.”
“…”
“Did she buy a lot of books? No, that’s not right… the person in Hangzhou hasn’t had time to publish books yet…”
“…”
“You should ask her tomorrow at school how she learned to paint.”
“…”
“Ah, does she come from a family of artists? Are her parents painters?”
“No.”
“How do you know they’re not?”
“I’ve been to her house?”
“???”
“…”
“What’s her name?”
“…” Overwhelmed, Shen Mo put down his chopsticks, politely said, “I’m full,” and hurried upstairs.
He was not a boy accustomed to talking so much with his father. Previously, the father and son each immersed in their own worlds suited him just fine.
Really.
“…” Shen Jiaru looked up at his son, thinking: I should go check out this kid at school or the youth center.
If she really has such skills at 15, what is she if not a genius?
Shen Jiaru, who loves painting as much as life itself but has never been particularly interested in people, suddenly found himself deeply intrigued by a 15-year-old human girl.
What kind of girl is she, really?