Chapter 41

The DNA brooch resembles a discolored pebble dropped into a still lake, creating subtle yet enduring ripples. It rests quietly on the workbench, forming a silent yet strange triangle with the cool grain of "Stardust Alloy" and the rational curves of Chen Hui's sculptures. Unsigned, unaccounted for, only the unfamiliar name of the overseas gallery, it stands like a deliberate puzzle.

I tried to contact the gallery, but my emails went unanswered and my phone calls went unanswered. It felt like a ghost address, existing solely for this precise delivery. This deliberate mystery mitigated any potential malice, making it feel more like a coded greeting, or perhaps a challenge, from a fellow artist.

I didn't put it away, but left it there, a daily focus. Its presence silently expanded the boundaries of my thinking. After "Stardust Landing," the focus of my creation seemed to naturally begin to slide towards a more inward and essential level.

Materials, structure, rationality, intuition… these explorations remain important, but they seem to have become tools, not ends. The “code of life” and “information foundation” metaphorically represented by the double helix has become an even more alluring black hole, beckoning me to peer inside.

I resumed my reading, no longer confined to art theory or materials science, but delving into foundational texts on biology, genetics, and even information theory. The text was difficult, the concepts abstract, and progress slow. But the dizzying feeling of trekking through the unknown captivated me. I could almost sense Chen Hui's state of mind as he faced the microscopic world in his laboratory—a compulsion mingled with awe and ambition, striving to understand the Creator's underlying code.

Wang Rui showed great understanding and support for my new direction. He sent me more abstracts of cutting-edge papers on biomaterials, biomimetics, and even synthetic biology. Although most of them were far beyond my current understanding, the macro picture was extremely inspiring.

"The intersection of art and science at the forefront is often about redefining 'life' and 'information,'" he wrote in an email.

This sentence became a beacon for my new stage.

I no longer rushed to make concrete objects. My studio was filled with books and printed papers, and my sketchbooks were no longer filled with concrete shapes, but with abstract diagrams, flow charts, and scribbled attempts to visualize biological concepts—the fluctuations of gene sequences, the folding of proteins, the division and apoptosis of cells... It was like a clumsy process of learning a new language through images.

This shift was introspective, even somewhat lonely. It stood in stark contrast to the clamor of the outside world. The buzz surrounding "Stardust Landing" hadn't completely faded, and Assistant Lin was still fielding invitations and inquiries. But he tacitly shut out most distractions, allowing me to participate only in the most necessary decisions.

Occasionally, I visit the foundation. The atmosphere there makes me feel grounded. Faced with those young and passionate creative projects, I can temporarily withdraw from abstract speculation and return to the most fundamental nature of art: connecting with people, emotions, and society.

One evening, I left the foundation and walked home. The warm early summer breeze rustled the leaves of the plane trees lining the street. I passed a park and saw several children playing with soapy water. Huge, rainbow-colored bubbles drifted in the sunset, changing shape and form before silently popping with a loud "pop."

I stopped and looked for a long time.

Those fragile, beautiful, ever-changing bubbles, those thin films carrying light and color, made of the simplest water and saponin...are they also a primitive form of "life"? A fleeting carrier of information?

A strong urge to create hit me without any warning.

Not grand structures, not complex materials.

It is this moment of extreme simplicity, extreme fragility, yet full of infinite possibilities.

I walked quickly back to the studio and without touching the heavy books, I took out the most ordinary sketch paper and pencil.

I started drawing bubbles.

Not from life, but relying on memory and imagination, I paint the moment they break, the interference fringes of light on the film, and the fleeting, perfect sphere...

The brushstrokes are quick, almost like graffiti.

But in these seemingly random lines, I felt a long-lost, pure pleasure of expression.

Over the next few days, I became obsessed with "capturing" bubbles in various ways—photography, high-speed video, and even trying to dip a very fine wire loop into the soapy solution to observe the dynamics of the film formation.

I realized that perhaps the most subtle manifestation of the grand proposition of "the code of life" lies not in complex laboratories, but in these everyday, easily overlooked moments. In that dynamic, fragile "interface" that strives to maintain its form and carry information.

I placed the DNA brooch side by side with a high-speed photograph of the bubble bursting.

A wonderful connection was created.

The double helix is ​​a solidified, stable genetic code.

Bubbles are fluid, instantaneous information interfaces.

One is about eternity, the other is about the moment.

Is there some deeper commonality between the two? Is it about how "form" carries "information"?

The idea excites me.

The new creative direction seems to have found a potential fulcrum between these two seemingly unrelated poles.

I cleared out a workbench.

There are only three things on it:

The DNA brooch from an unknown source.

A photo of the moment a bubble bursts.

There is also an open biology textbook about cell membrane structure and information transmission.

Like a simple altar, it enshrines all my curiosity and awe about the next puzzle.

I know that my next work may lack heaviness or a solid structure. It may be as light as a breath, as fleeting as a moment. But it will attempt to touch the most delicate and tenacious boundary—the boundary between life and information.