Hua Jie struggled for a while but couldn’t bring herself to say the words “I am willing.”
“…” Shen Jiaru looked at her, feeling surprisingly nervous.
Even Zhao Xiaolei furrowed his brow. Shouldn’t she be expressing her gratitude at this moment and enthusiastically saying “I am willing”?
Hua Jie stared into Shen Jiaru’s eyes, desperately searching for words. Finally, she stood up, bowed deeply to Shen Jiaru, and earnestly said, “Teacher!”
Shen Jiaru finally let out a sigh of relief.
Fortunately, his dignity as a master painter wasn’t compromised here.
Zhang Xiangyang watched helplessly as his studio’s genius mascot was taken away by the renowned painter, unable to utter a word of farewell.
Bidding farewell with tears, he felt as complex as a father sending his daughter off to marriage.
From now on, there wouldn’t be such outstanding student artworks on the studio’s display wall.
Nor would there be the naturally gifted young teacher to help him with his students.
It was a significant loss.
Shen Jiaru and his group walked down the corridor, with Zhang Xiangyang and Jing Nian seeing them off.
Tang Yang, who had always hoped for Hua Jie to leave the studio, sat at her seat for a while, biting her lip, before suddenly standing up and walking to the door.
She and Hua Jie weren’t from the same school, and apart from the weekend art studio, they had no other connections.
After hesitating for a few seconds and watching Hua Jie take a few more steps away, she could no longer restrain herself, running forward two steps and calling out:
“Hua Jie!”
This was probably the first time she had initiated a conversation with Hua Jie after being scolded by her.
The young girl walking beside Shen Jiaru stopped and turned around, raising her eyebrows in slight surprise, not expecting Tang Yang to be the one calling her.
“Will you still come to the studio in the future?” Tang Yang took a couple of awkward steps forward, furrowing her brows in seriousness.
“I don’t know, maybe.” The Shen family had several large studios filled with various still lifes, plaster statues, and the like. When busy with painting, she really shouldn’t be running off to the youth center anymore.
Tang Yang pursed her lips.
Shen Jiaru and Zhao Xiaolei were both waiting for Hua Jie a step away, and at this moment, they both turned back to look at Tang Yang.
The usually delicate Tang Yang took a deep breath, and as her eyebrows raised, a rare valiant spirit emerged.
“Which university are you planning to apply to?”
“Tsinghua.” Hua Jie smiled faintly.
Tang Yang was stunned.
She had thought that if Hua Jie mentioned institutions like Central Academy of Fine Arts or LuXun Academy of Fine Arts, she would say, “I will also test into one of those, and then we’ll see who paints better!” But she never expected the other to say Tsinghua…
It was like asking the village’s little rascal what his dream was, and him responding, “To become the President of the United States.”
Tang Yang was at a loss for words, her train of thought completely disrupted, unable to continue the storyline she had been imagining.
Looking at Tang Yang’s dazed expression, Hua Jie burst out laughing and then said cheerfully:
“Wait for me at Tsinghua; they started a fine arts department last year.”
“…” Tang Yang stared at her for a few seconds before nodding and saying, “Okay!”
Hua Jie chuckled, said goodbye to Zhang Xiangyang once more, waved at Jing Nian, then ran back to Shen Jiaru’s side.
“Your classmate seems really reluctant to part with you,” Zhao Xiaolei said, turning to her.
“Not really, we had a huge fight before. She just wants to surpass me, afraid I’ll slip away and not give her the chance to vent,” Hua Jie laughed heartily, looking back at Tang Yang, “But girls are really cute, so capricious and like to bully, yet also adorably clueless.”
“…” Zhao Xiaolei.
The way she put it, she sounded quite mature.
“…” Shen Jiaru.
Praising girls as cute, was she using it to compliment herself indirectly? This child really is outgoing and cheerful.
The group hadn’t even reached the staircase when suddenly there were thumping footsteps running up from downstairs.
Soon, a young man came running up, holding a stack of paintings in his arms—it was Sun Nan, a teacher from the first-floor studio.
“Teacher Shen!” Sun Nan quickly approached Shen Jiaru, his face eager.
Although he was already in his twenties… many famous painters didn’t make their mark until middle age, right?
Perhaps the reason he hadn’t yet become a renowned painter, unable to sell his paintings, was that he hadn’t found his own patron.
What if? What if Teacher Shen saw him as a talent worth cultivating and took him in as an overage student…
Thinking of the potential benefits of becoming Shen Jiaru’s disciple, Sun Nan couldn’t help but make an effort.
He had brought what he considered his best paintings, hoping to stop the teacher and show them to him.
But before Sun Nan could get close, he was stopped by the tall and thin Zhao Xiaolei.
Zhao Xiaolei’s slender but strong fingers, clearly defined, pushed against Sun Nan’s upper arm, preventing him from stepping any closer.
“Teacher Shen, please take a look at my paintings,” Sun Nan pleaded with his eyes.
Zhao Xiaolei turned to look at Shen Jiaru, and seeing the teacher indifferent, he pushed Sun Nan away again.
“I’m sorry, but please don’t do this.”
Sun Nan, holding his paintings, stood in shock as he saw Shen Jiaru merely glance at him indifferently before looking away, obviously uninterested.
After walking a few steps, Hua Jie turned back to look at Sun Nan.
“Teacher, have you seen his paintings?” she asked Shen Jiaru.
“I have seen them; the colors are passable, but the sketching is weak, the foundation of quick drawing is not solid, and even the composition has problems.”
“He clearly is someone who tries to cut corners, eager for quick success, and his art is not good. Even the best teachers cannot teach a good student if the student is not willing.”
“His problem lies in his heart, not in his technique,” Shen Jiaru shook his head, his impression of Sun Nan not very favorable.
He could not agree with someone who views painting purely as a means to an end.
Without love, painting is no different from any other craft; only a sincere person can understand its most enchanting charm.
In Shen Jiaru’s view, people like Sun Nan probably will never understand, and as they age, they might even grow to despise and hate painting.
Shen Jiaru would rather not sell any paintings for years, spending his days holed up in the studio seeking inspiration and breakthroughs, rather than paint just for money or accept invitations to forcibly hold exhibitions.
But for people like Sun Nan, as long as it makes money, they don’t consider being accountable for their paintings or their artistic integrity.
Like many artists, Shen Jiaru may appear gentle and humble, but he is actually full of pride, and he shows his sharp edges to those who do not share his values, making him particularly difficult to get along with, even painful.
“I understand now; I will take painting more seriously,” Hua Jie said earnestly, appearing receptive to learning.
Shen Jiaru smiled faintly.
This child quickly assumed the role of his obedient disciple, taking all his words as lessons.
“Your sincerity is enough, but there are other things you need to learn,” Shen Jiaru said confidently.
Hua Jie looked up just as she walked to the window, where the sunlight streamed through the dense clouds and fell upon Shen Jiaru.
She looked at her teacher’s expression and then at the window, stretching out her palm to catch a handful of light.
Did Teacher Shen already have a plan on how to guide her transformation?
She was eager to start.
…
On the corridor outside the second-floor studio, Sun Nan watched the backs of Hua Jie and Shen Jiaru, incredulous, and turned to ask Zhang Xiangyang:
“Did Teacher Shen Jiaru take Hua Jie as his disciple?”
“Yes,” Zhang Xiangyang said proudly, as if the child had flown out of his own ‘chicken coop’ to become a phoenix, and her studio flourished because of it.
“How did you recommend her to Teacher Shen?” Sun Nan frowned, suspecting some illicit means.
“Hua Jie earned the recognition and respect on her own merits,” Zhang Xiangyang glared back at Sun Nan, who seemed to see every person as a potential crook.
“…” Sun Nan.
“Teacher, does that mean she actually won’t be coming back to the studio anymore?” Jing Nian asked.
“…” Tang Yang also looked at Zhang Xiangyang.
“What comes to me is my fortune; what leaves me is my fate,” Zhang Xiangyang said.
“…” Jing Nian: “Teacher, are you really talking about students?”
“…” Tang Yang.
“Hua Jie came to me to apprentice,” Sun Nan suddenly spoke up.
“?” Zhang Xiangyang.
“?” Jing Nian.
“?” Tang Yang.
“I refused…” Sun Nan.
“…” Jing Nian.
“…” Tang Yang.
“Forget it, even if you had taken her on, you couldn’t have kept her,” Zhang Xiangyang.
“…” Sun Nan.
…
Shen Jiaru was eager to go back and try out the color clash technique Hua Jie had just used.
Or perhaps he would make a bold move and try it on the painting hanging on the wall—
Don’t be afraid that change might fail, clench your teeth with the resolve that you might ruin a painting, tear through the past, and try to embrace a completely different painting method.
So, with her sketchpad and backpack, Hua Jie decisively left the youth center.
Zhao Xiaolei drove quickly; the thick clouds had gathered snow, but it had not yet fallen to the ground when they reached home.
He introduced Hua Jie to several studios, explained the class times for next weekend, took a drink of water, and watched as the girl sat down on a stool, placing her painting materials and sketchpad on the floor, temporarily settling into his studio.
Up until this moment, Shen Jiaru hadn’t remembered that when he went to the youth center, he had originally planned it as a trip to drop off his son.
With a disciple now, he had forgotten his son.
“That useless book of yours must be lost, misleading people. Starting next week, I’ll teach you the basics of watercolor,” Shen Jiaru disdainfully pointed at the watercolor instruction book Hua Jie had just pulled out of her backpack.
“Ah… it’s worth quite a bit of money, I’ll take it back to sell as scrap paper,” Hua Jie said, clearly impoverished.
“Eh? What are you doing with the car keys again?” Shen Jiaru noticed through the open door of the studio that Zhao Xiaolei seemed to be heading out.
“Shen Mo is still at the youth center,” Zhao Xiaolei said.
“…Oh.” Only then did Shen Jiaru remember he had a son, “Let him ride his bike back.”
“Teacher, we drove him there; he didn’t bring his bike,” Zhao Xiaolei pointed out, indicating the yard where the bike was left.
If he didn’t go pick him up, Shen Mo would have to walk several kilometers, braving the wind and snow to get back on his own.
They had just returned home from the youth center, and indeed, they had stuffed Hua Jie’s bicycle into the trunk to bring it back.
Hua Jie’s bicycle was remembered, but Shen Mo was completely forgotten.
“…Ah, then you go,” Shen Jiaru looked at the sky and urged, “It’s going to snow, hurry up. When you come back, drive this child home.”
“…Okay,” Zhao Xiaolei nodded.
So, was Teacher Shen urging him to hurry not because he was worried about his own son getting cold in the snow, but because he was worried about not being able to drive his newly accepted student home in time?
“No need, no need, I can just ride my bike home. Teacher Zhao, drive slowly and be safe,” Hua Jie quickly added.
“Alright, you can just call me Brother Lei like Shen Mo does,” Zhao Xiaolei waved his hand, somewhat lazily changing his shoes at the door, then made sure to say goodbye to Shen Jiaru before he left.
The moment the door closed, snow finally hit the ground, a confusing whirl of whiteness. It looks like the temperature was about to drop again.
…
Several kilometers away, on the basketball court at the youth center.
When the youngsters saw it start to snow, they called it quits and each headed home.
Shen Mo ran his hands through his short hair, the snowflakes melting as soon as they touched his face, which he then wiped off.
He picked up his down jacket from under the basketball hoop, shook off the snow, and put it on before heading to the second-floor studio.
He learned that Little Potato had already left, supposedly never to return.
Dispelling the sad atmosphere he carried from the studio, he walked out of the youth center building and into a large open space.
The snow suddenly intensified, thumb-sized flakes blown directly into his face by the wind.
He tightened his collar, hunched his shoulders, and hurried to where Zhao Xiaolei had parked, only to find it empty, the family car long gone.
Standing at the parking spot, the boy’s ears instantly turned red from the cold, and he stamped his feet.
It suddenly dawned on him that he seemed to have been forgotten here.
Snowflakes fluttered, and the north wind howled.
In a vast, bleak world, an unwanted child stood proudly in the snow…
Tired, no longer capable of love.