Prologue
Upper Chapter: Lu Min's Account
I was discussing the detailed arrangements for the art exhibition with a journalist friend when the phone rang.
"Xia Xue has passed away."
The voice on the other end of the line sounded so disheartened, completely cold, without any trace of anger.
The call was from Xiao Yu, the painter whose solo exhibition I was planning to hold next week. Xia Xue was his fiancée, and they had originally planned to get married after the exhibition - but she had suddenly fallen ill and died at this time.
I shook my head slightly in my heart. Just as Xiao Yu was finally gaining recognition, and he and his lover were about to become a couple, that elf-like woman, Xia Xue, who had once been a sex worker, had passed away. She had seemingly sacrificed her young life as an offering to Xiao Yu's first solo art exhibition.
Xia Xue was indeed a sex worker. In this era, sex workers, prostitutes, bitches, escorts - I can't say what the difference between them is. Love quotes aside, whether you admit it or not, there is such a group of people existing in the darkest corners, selling their bodies for money. We consciously or unconsciously avoid this fact, but this reality is as undeniable as the fact that our ancestors were hairy monkeys. This woman, whether she was a devil or a fox spirit incarnate, no matter how many men had been in her life, no matter how many debased and corrupt nights she had endured, her heart had always only held one person, until death. The former maiden, Xia Xue, had died, and Xiao Yu's heart had also died with her. She had ruled his entire life with her intelligence, beauty, purity, and sacrifice.
From now on, Xiao Yu's heart would never come back to life.
Personality determines fate. Who said that? A very familiar phrase, often quoted, but I can't remember who said it right now.
Painter Xiao Yu
Xiao Yu was a gifted graduate from the provincial art school in the 1990s, once considered by teachers to be one of the most promising young painters. But in this age of advanced computer technology and a crowded art scene, the future of a painter with no connections was not smooth sailing. It was somewhat like the saying goes: like a fly stuck on glass, the future seemed infinitely bright, yet there was no way forward. Moreover, Xiao Yu was someone who valued freedom as the entirety of his artistic life.
I met Xiao Yu through a friend's introduction. At that time, Xiao Yu had no reputation in the art world, and no one was buying his paintings. To make ends meet, he made a living by drawing cartoons for some magazines and occasionally teaching a few students.
The friend who introduced us was an art editor for one of the magazines where Xiao Yu submitted his work. He highly praised and enthusiastically recommended Xiao Yu, saying that although Xiao Yu looked like a down-and-out scholar, painters like him who didn't follow trends, didn't chase fads, and persisted in their own free style of painting were indeed rare these days. His paintings would definitely be appreciated in the future.
Originally, I had little regard for these so-called painters who insisted on being true to themselves. I just laughed it off. Some artists always think that individuality can be eaten, and they often consider themselves superior. They are wild, ostentatious, despise those who follow the crowd, thinking themselves unrecognized geniuses, often being ambitious but lacking talent.
However, under the repeated urging of my friend, out of politeness, I still decided to visit his studio with my friend.
Upon seeing him for the first time, I knew it wasn't a wasted trip.
He lived in an ordinary apartment building, with narrow and dark corridors, showing signs of considerable hardship in his life. My friend rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I thought we might be turned away. My friend, as if reading my mind, smiled and said, "Don't worry, when he's deep in thought, you could burn down the house and he wouldn't hear."
We pressed the doorbell nonstop for at least five minutes before the door finally opened.
A pale and thin face then appeared before me.
He was tall, with neatly combed-back hair, unlike the long, gender-ambiguous hair typical of many young artists these days. His fingers were long, white, and delicate. If no one told you, you'd assume they belonged to a pianist. At first glance, I didn't think of him as a painter but rather as the dashing Xiao Ma Ge.
After opening the door, he didn't speak but went straight inside. I was quite put off by his impolite manner, but my friend, who was clearly more familiar with him, pulled me along and entered without hesitation.
It was an old-style building with a small living room and poor lighting. I noticed the paintings scattered around and felt a slight tremor. His style was fresh and ambiguous, unique, using reds, blues, yellows - simple and pure, with colors perfectly balanced. However, I knew that with these works, he wouldn't make much of a name for himself. Because his style was too unique, it lacked affiliation with any established school. If you refuse to follow the mainstream, those self-important critics won't have the clichéd words to describe your work. Without the critics' endorsements, you won't gain fame, and no one will buy your paintings. People who buy paintings usually buy the artist's reputation, not the paintings themselves.
While the quality of the paintings is important, it's even more crucial for the artist to have a reputation. That's value.
His studio was on the balcony, enclosed by glass.
The reason he used the balcony as a studio was probably because it was the brightest spot in the whole apartment.
After letting us in, he sat on a chair on the balcony, hands clasped behind his head, gazing into the distance, lost in thought. His posture was elegant but rude. What was this? Treating us as invisible?
The balcony was spacious enough, giving him plenty of room to let his imagination run wild. The floor was covered with various kinds of paint. A lonely painter, messy and pitiful.
"This is art dealer Lu Min. She wants to see your paintings. If possible, your paintings can be handled by her in the future," my friend said to him.
I was indeed an art dealer, with a bit of a reputation in the industry and a wide network of contacts. At that time, I ran a gallery that often displayed works by young and promising painters. First of all, their paintings were very cheap, sometimes inexplicably so. And this market was vast, unlike the works of famous painters which were exclusive collectibles for the rich, meant only to enhance their sophistication. The works of an unknown painter could be proudly purchased by anyone with a slight love for art and displayed in their living room or any place they liked.
Van Gogh didn't sell a single painting while he was alive, not because his paintings weren't good, but because he wasn't famous.
Back then, people who bought paintings were actually buying fame. They liked the potential value behind the artwork, not the painting itself.
We must thank the significant improvement in living standards of ordinary people over the decades since the country's reform and opening-up, because now even commoners can talk about art and display it in their living rooms.
My friend had already told me beforehand that apart from selling his cartoons, none of Xiao Yu's oil paintings had been sold, even though he specialized in oil painting.
I thought he would be surprised, and then pleased. After all, having someone appreciate your work is every painter's dream.
"Not for sale," he jumped up and said, his angular face exuding confidence, leaving no room for negotiation. Especially his eyes, black and profound, youthful arrogance mixed with infinite tenderness, as if they could melt a person. Fortunately, I've seen too much in life; if I were twenty years younger, I think I would have been melted by those eyes and fallen into his web without resistance. Even so, my heart still trembled under his gaze.