Inflorescence between life and death
Thank you
When I look at this flower, the color of this flower is understood for a while;
When I don't look at this flower, this flower and my heart return to silence.
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summon
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In the winter, I met a painter who seemed to have come out of nowhere, and before that, no one in the art world knew him.
He was over half a hundred years old, but his hair was jet black, and his glasses were loose and crumbling on the bridge of his nose, and he needed to extend his index finger to push up from time to time. When something happens, this pair of glasses is like an obstacle that will be taken off by him at the first time. At that time, he showed his tired eyes, stared at the hole all the time, and could quickly come up with an idea. Among his many solutions, there is no shortage of radical ways that young talents may accept, and he is always proud of this, and summarizes the reason: he was one of the first fashionable people to see the world through a smartphone. However, he smashes smartphones because he often feels more like the owner of life than he is. He glued the damaged phones and piled them together so that the spikes of the hill looked out the window, and from the outside it looked like a room full of phones spilling out. He called the installation "Zhi Qi". He loves his creations madly. For his peers, those who are neither friends nor enemies, he is harsh and never scrupulous.
I met him for the first time at a group exhibition of four well-known painters.
He stood alone in the corner of the exhibition hall, making offensive remarks about a universally recognized masterpiece. No one at the scene knew him. People speak softly, not to mention that what they say is ruthless, and naturally some people want to clean him up. The curator reached out and grabbed several of the guests, suggesting that they go together. As a friend of the curator, I think that if I do this, the riot caused by the scene is likely to overshadow the content that the exhibition really wants to convey to the outside world, and the gain is not worth the loss, and I will immediately stop it. I did this by pretending to be the poor acquaintance of the rather drunken man, calling out a name in surprise, and coming forward to shake his hand. He, in turn, clamped my hand and asked for my opinion.
"Aren't those garbage?"
I hummed and perfunctorily led him out of the showroom.
As I left, I said in a serious tone that it was too easy to belittle. He was somewhat surprised. Afterwards he said that, like all those who had caught his attention, I had taught him earnestly what he looked like, and that attention, not the words, made him feel that I was a responsible man. It all sounded plausible afterwards, but at the time, he did quickly abandon his cynical side, solemnly took a business card from his pocket and invited me to his studio.
"If you still said that at that time, I believe you would be happy to choose a painting to take home."
Later, I understood that he was pretentious, thinking that the person who could draw like him would be a blessing for everyone. If I had known his routine at that time, I would have insulted him mercilessly and refuted his ignorance. But, on the one hand, I was really shocked by his paintings, and on the other hand, I lacked the means to deal with men, which I have not made up for to this day. I said, I retract the previous sentence, you have the right to belittle anyone. I encouraged him to hold an exhibition. That's it? He shook his head and said, not enough, there is still an important painting unfinished, in fact...
He quickly lifted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and added that I hadn't started yet.
Those finished paintings were placed in his home. The top floor of a simply renovated three-storey villa, on the floor, all facing the wall, except for the one on the easel that was underway. At first, I couldn't see any paintings at all.
The lower floor is just the opposite, the wall is not divided into areas, horizontal seven vertical eight, see the seam needle hanging full of paintings, other people's paintings. Ordinary people will be stopped when they get there, and he says to those people, "It's over." It's not too much to say, let's see whose paintings are there. At a glance, I saw Wu Guanzhong's "Double Swallow", which was an amazing work that came out on top in the auction market that year, with a starting price of 75 million and a transaction price of more than 100 million. His other ink of the same name, which is half as low as the price, is also on the list. When I saw them, although it could be inferred from the painter's home that he should have a certain amount of economic strength, I privately thought that it was not enough to pocket the original works of such two paintings, and it was impossible to have one. Therefore, I only slightly bowed my head, indicating that he was of good taste, and did not go close to the picture as he should behave when he saw a rare treasure, eager to eat every ink. However, then I also saw He Duoling's "Life", as an artist who has been in the jianghu for many years, I am very aware of He Duoling's performance in the market. Twelve years later, the painting was auctioned in Guangdong for 850,000 yuan, and nine years later, it returned to Christie's Hong Kong for a high price of more than 10 million. Next to this painting, I also saw "The Third Generation", the middle of which the woman in red, Mr. How, often painted a certain poet, with a beautiful goose egg face and more whites under the eyes, which naturally has a cold and profound meaning. I remember that the last time it appeared at auction in 2011, it was taken away for more than 28 million.
I turned my head to look at him, my painter.
From the moment he handed me his business card, I knew that his name was Lu Kaiwu, which was why I didn't pay much attention to him at first, this name was forceful and elegant, forceful to the point of vulgarity, giving people a sense of being ready to practice but not knowing why, so I skipped his name and called him painter.
I was about to throw him my complicated doubts when he pointed to the wall opposite the window, and I looked over and there was a painting of Modigliani hanging around it, with paintings of Bacon and Michel Basquiat hanging in a jumble. Even if it is a fake, a replica of such a realistic scale feels impossible and false. But then, easily and not without hesitation, he removed his glasses, took them in his hands and shook them twice, saying:
"It's all real guys."
The ones I've noticed alone add up to nearly two billion. On the one hand, I understand that ordinary people don't make such jokes, and on the other hand, I desperately want to be a joke. I always feel weak about the adventures that are close at hand.
The painter looked at me in disbelief and motioned for me to go out with a look of arrogance that was not understood.
He lowered the chain that stood in the way at the corner of the stairs, and when he and I had walked up two steps, he turned around and hung them again. This action made me and him seem ambiguous because I entered an isolated space. I was a little frightened, uneasy about my reckless entry into a stranger's mansion. Even if the paintings I just saw were real, was it right for me to do so? I asked myself. I value fame over money. No, no, no, I've shaken.
My mind was racing with Modigliani's Nude Lying on Her Side, her orange flesh lying across the bed, generously displayed, was this her artistic destiny or a moment of lust as an ordinary woman? I remembered that the painter had come to the gallery where we had met again without contacting him, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw me, saying that if I did not appear again after the exhibition was over, he would give up. He also disparaged the painters who exhibited that day. So I should be curious about him, right? So it makes sense for me to come here, right? Definitely not because of the two billion downstairs, but also what he claims, who knows if it is true or not? And the reason why I have always been reluctant to believe it is also related to the simple decoration of this building. All these things are both true and illusory, one moment noble and one moment lowly, and I staggered upstairs.
The only painting you can see in front of you is placed on the easel, ready to be completed.
Seeing it, all my distractions vanished.
Can you tell exactly where it's so good? No. Any work that shakes people's hearts is like a overwhelmed lover, if you can say where he is good, there is probably no real love. The real good, or rather, anything pure in this world, is indescribable, and can only rise to an intuitive understanding.
The painting is covered with some blue lines, similar to Klein blue, but brighter, and the layers can still be seen even inside the lines. In it, a red glowing carp—also some lines, crocheted and interlaced, already beginning to take shape—leaps to the far right corner of the frame, as if about to rush out. Although it is only about a third of the painting, it is amazing enough.
"Carp?"
"Who knows." He denied it.
Then he turned around a painting directly in front of him that was hit like a wave of sunlight searchlights. This time it was red lines, quiet and mysterious grass, some cat's blue eyes flew like fire in the gaps, the lines were dotted, full, virtual and real, supporting the whole picture. He walked to the other side, drew a painting from the shadow of an old chair stacked with paint, and laid it out facing me. The blue lines were again, and this time they were like some wandering thoughts, each of which was dotted with red dew. Is this all his paintings? A mixture of blue and red? That's right, every picture he turned around and showed me later was like this. He said that there was still one painting left, and I was ready to paint the one that I always felt unprepared.
From then on, I began to curry favor with him, praising him as a genius with heartfelt admiration, as I did with every talented guy I admired. He did not accept this, but fell melancholy silent, and finally said, Let's go.
I offered to go downstairs to the floor again. He narrowed his eyes and said, after seeing me, do you still want to see those? Oh, I was a little embarrassed and said, just look at it casually, don't look at it, it's not true anyway.
"It's true, believe it or not." He got bored and said unceremoniously, "Can you compare those you know the price with those you don't know the price?" ”
He didn't leave me to chat or eat something, even though it was already lunchtime. From entering his villa to leaving, it was only thirty or forty minutes in total, and the time was so short that it was impossible to judge anything, to paint with people, to see the truth of everything and the reason for their arrival.
Curiously, when I went back, I didn't have any urge to mention this hallucinatory encounter to others. It was as if I had discovered a treasure under the sea, and I knew that I was powerless to grab it, and that I kept it a secret and did not want others to know it, as if it were mine. I threw myself in, slowed down and zoomed in on every frame for half an hour, immersed in the resulting bewildering pleasure. Sometimes I would jerk myself up and ask myself, if those paintings are all true, who is this person with the name of a third-rate monk?
This is proof that this is a mere thought of two billion ordinary people.
It is indeed an astronomical number of maddening, even criminal. Talk about feelings first, and then start with money, this is the routine. But I'm not confident in my charisma. When I first arrived at his house, I was afraid to walk with him unguarded into the top floor of what looked like a forbidden area, and the people not only behaved in a disciplined manner, but also seemed to be a little impatient. Men are always the kind of women who are serious all the time like me, and I can't do without a serious book. I have shackles on me, but what the hell, the shackles on my body itself are restricting me from finding answers. So from the very beginning I didn't want to achieve anything in this way. I'm thinking about his paintings. It's true that during the excitement of the week, I thought more about what bird the two billion had to do with me, and what the paintings on the top floor seemed to imply in an approachable way. My gut told me it was an opportunity.
Very early on, as early as the first day of my registration at the Academy of Fine Arts, I knew that I could not become a great artist in this life. Look at the classmates around you, they dare to put the penis model on the flagpole, dare to fall in love with the nude model who is twenty years older than themselves, whether it is under the pen or the carving knife, they are running with the freedom of transcendence. Weighing and weighing, because of my own impossibility, but there is a rare and comprehensive sense of beauty growing in my body, I feel that it is probably a way to stay in the art circle and serve some artists I admire. But over the years, the people I have chosen have either given up halfway and become housewives or business operators, or they have made no progress in painting and painting, and they are so poor that they can't even afford to live in the basement. What happened to this painter who didn't know where he came from, and his paintings painted in only two colors, appear with him?
First of all, his name should be changed, and "Kaiwu" is much better, avoiding the purposefulness of "enlightenment" and the current vulgarization. No, no, no, or too direct, go to the "heart", have the meaning of self-disarming, but always appear to be pretend, annoying. So, how about "U"? That's great. It is first and foremost a color, associated with art, related to all things, and isn't it black to mix together all the filth of light? Huge and deep. At the same time, as an onomatopoeic word, it also contains the meaning of questioning and sighing, which is both realistic and quite imagery. Well, that's it. What is the name of the exhibition? Blue is reminiscent of rivers, and he does paint water. What about red? I looked at myself under the street lamp. Red reflection of a blue river.
"What? Wu, isn't that without a little bird use? ”
It seems that he is satisfied with the title of the exhibition, otherwise he would not have just ridiculed a black word. But he rejected my suggestion. He took off his glasses to reveal a pair of large, loose eyes, but the eyes were clear, and suddenly he stared at me, looking at me like a sinner.
That's the end of it.
After two months of this, one day I saw a message in the newspaper.
I was drinking tea at a friend of the American Association. The message is briefly that the painter's house is on fire. The location and the description of the villa are all right. The report said it was a family affair, just a few lines, no more information. I immediately called the painter. I was relieved to hear his voice. People are fine. He asked me why I didn't ask anything else. What do I say, what else? He said those paintings were worth a lot, and he didn't ask any questions. I said, what do they have to do with me? If I had to ask, I would care about the ones you painted upstairs. He smirked and said, you can just take a look.
A few months ago, a three-story mansion with a face that was not very rich, but at least decent, and the image that ordinary people could not reach, became an ugly old woman. The cool breeze of early spring will make it impossible to stand. The real nails are not left. The painter stands in a place where he can see the panorama and looks at it like looking at a painting. He turned to me and said, you still don't believe it, those paintings are real, but no one knows, and now that someone knows, I burn them.
I was so surprised that I couldn't speak.
After a few minutes of pause, I muttered, "Do you think I'm going to fight something?" I didn't come out until I kept swallowing, "Even then there is no need to burn it!" ”
"The painting is mine, the building is mine, I can burn it if I want." He was extremely arrogant, "When I say 'someone knows', I don't mean you, don't you still suspect that they are all fake?" I'm wary of what you do. ”
Of course I'm still skeptical.
If you look at him, if it were true, more than two billion, would he be the same expression he has now? After the burning, it was much calmer than when we last met, as if it was only a set of dominoes that could be built in just twenty minutes, and only twenty minutes were lost. And he did not cherish the ones he painted upstairs, which was reasonable. I have met too many artists who have burned their works without a word, but this is the first time I have seen them even when they burn down the studio. This man is a lunatic, I'm sure. I have to leave quickly. But he pulled me to tell me that the person he was going to watch out for was his daughter. The question is, is this being wary? No matter how much of her daughter's threat, although he completely cut off her thoughts, he also buried himself, even, art. And at the heart of all these questions is, are those paintings real? Now there is no proof of death.
"Do you trust your eyes?" He asked me.
"Can't believe it too much." I bid farewell, leaving him alone.
But he caught up with me and said, "I agree with that." ”
"What?" I don't understand.
"Art Exhibition.""
"An exhibition? What do you do for an exhibition? ”
"All in." He smiled.
And he said, "Believe me. ”
I look back. He took off his glasses and squeezed them in his hands, his face a triumphant expression revealing a surprising secret. All in. Things suddenly got interesting. With this sentence, the person in front of you cannot be crazy.
"But there's still one painting left, and you'll have to wait for me to paint it."
I was pushed by him like this, cooperating in his planned steps.
He told me that from the first time he saw me, he knew very well that we would be bound together. It's fate. He reminded me that this bonding was different from the relationship between men and women, but rather the similarity of the most stubborn part of the personality. I have an inexplicable sense of responsibility and compassion, believing that good art can talk to God, and even god is speaking, having the ability to identify what is good and know my own position. He was therefore willing to approach me.
I kind of mind that he first cleared the relationship between men and women, as if to say that I was unattractive. Of all his self-righteous judgments, the only apt one is the word "inexplicable." If not, how could I possibly help him with perjury that he was with me at the time of the fire? He said immediately after winning trust with the police that maybe he had offended someone, but he didn't want to pursue it. He squeezed out a bitter smile and said tolerantly, when is the time to repay the wrongs.
I have to say that the arts are the same, and he must have a day to become an actor. Then he found a clean-up team and cleaned upstairs and downstairs. Finally, he left a letter in the foyer where only a black skeleton had been burned. There were only three words on the letter: all gone. It was for his daughter to see. In another two hours, according to him, his daughter's plane from Berlin to Chunjiang would land.
Having done all this, he opened the door and took a few steps backwards to look.
"Oh, my 'wisdom' has also been destroyed, but alas."
After muttering for a while, he turned around and beckoned me to go with me.
Until then I didn't know where he was going next. But since he said that, there must be a place to go. I walked with him for a while, watching him become more and more casual, turning when he saw a bend, always turning to the right at the intersection, and if it was a straight road, then go all the way down. I couldn't hold my breath. Just as I was about to ask him, he stopped, took a brand new smartphone from his backpack, and found a small phone card with a plastic envelope in his jacket pocket and installed it. He waved his hand and said, "Give it to me." What the? Report your phone number. I read it out. He pressed the number, dialed it, and hung up after passing it.
"Save well, don't contact until you have to."
I casually added a "draw" word that corresponded to his number.
"Where are you going?"
"Find my painting."
People like painters cannot be viewed in the logic of ordinary people.
In this respect I agree with Jung's theory that artists are chosen as tools for expressing the collective unconscious, and that their creativity comes from the memories of the race and family behind them, and a very small part of his personal will. They are swept up by the collective unconscious, and most of the time they don't know what they're doing.
Let him go.
How to find, how long to find... Even if I asked these questions, he might not be able to answer them. What the artist excels at is post-mortem exposition.
Let's leave it at that.
A year later, I received a package the size of a shoebox.
I was planning the only exhibition of the year, featuring an old painter who had been a sensation in the early years, faded in a short time, and now has new works. I read that his fame was still alive, and I turned a blind eye to his almost regressive level of creation to the level of adolescence, calling it a meaningful "return." The poster for the exhibition has been designed, and the baby has an old man's head on its body. I mean, we analyze ourselves and deal with the weakest points first, so that even if someone questions the level of the painting, it will not hurt. But to the old painter, I naturally say something else. In short, this is an exhibition that can benefit me with his influence. I was busy and did my best. When the package arrived, I saw it as a nuisance, hurriedly signed it and threw it aside. Until everything is arranged properly. I had set aside two days of free time before the show to deal with chores that might not have been taken into account. As a result, thanks to my meticulous preparation, there was nothing to worry about for the whole week before the exhibition. What a good sign.
For the first three days of that week, I met a few friends who had been neglected some time ago because I was too busy. On the fourth day, I nervously went through the exhibition process again. On the last day, the day before the start, I slept until noon, and after eating something casually, I remembered the unopened package.
I slowly cut open the package and saw that there was a wooden box inside, and it was rosewood, some years old, and there was no lock. I tried to break it, and the box produced a mechanical pullback. With a click, it opened. Inside was a layer of black sponge, a groove in the middle, and a silver USB stick half the size of a lighter for a dollar. Originally, I thought it would be a seal of a beast, or a ceramic artwork for ornamentation, or a jade pendant, Buddha Gong, Fu Dou or something. This is the gift style that is common in our line. Unexpectedly, it was a USB stick.
The painter, who had not seen a trace for a year, had spoken out all the words of the year in it.
At the beginning he said, what the are you doing now? The guy cheekily painted something childish to fool people, and you're still pushing the bandwagon, and I'm going to reconsider whether you're qualified to be my curator.
But he immediately forgot about that position.
He said that since he had never been able to find the original image of the last painting—he explained that it was actually necessary for the original image to come to him, a great symbol that suddenly came into his mind and could prompt him to pick up the paintbrush—he had to wait. In the process, he wrote down the following things. He began writing from his grandmother with such excitement and satisfaction that painting could bring him that he had to find someone to see what he had written. In the dark, he thought it was a program, as if a person could only dream when he fell asleep. Sometimes, when he writes, he feels that he is asleep, and the people and things he writes about are like dreams, one by one jumping out of the void and having an entity. Show me that I want these entities to make sense. Things are created to be known. Man's greatest function is to see. Seeing one can see two, and maybe the next, that three, is his painting. He was convinced that his paintings would be summoned in this way.
I'm reluctant to dig deeper into what he's talking about, and the introduction has never been that important. I am a professional curator and am only interested in the work itself. I think the form of delivery he took, the grand packaging, was the work itself. Now that I've seen some of the works look like, let's move on.
I printed out the manuscript, a very thick one, full of words, which really made me a little bit bigger.
I made a cup of coffee and sat down at the window. I try to find the point quickly. The sun was shining, and the manuscript opened with a heavy rain, and my senses appeared to be misaligned, and the sun fell on me as if the rain had hit me.
The time goes back to 1940.
The painter's father was born in this year.
The painter says that I must find a way to see things farther back in time in order to have the opportunity to capture the most profound things in the present day from the universal vitality, which is a penetrating, superimposed, tear-jerking emotional experience. My impulses tell me:
I have a mission to express.
Responsible editor of the original book Jiang Ting
Beijing October Literature and Art Publishing House, January 2022
Responsible editor of this magazine Li Chengqiang Song
Writer, Master of Arts from Chinese Min University. His works have appeared in literary journals such as "People's Literature", "Chinese Writers", "Zhong Shan", "Huacheng", etc., and published the novel "Women from Other Provinces" and the short story collection "To the Side of the Xiema River". Some works have been translated into Spanish and Nepali.
Editor: Chen Ming
Second instance: Li Chengqiang
Third trial: Song Song