Quenching

Chen Hui's lawyer's letter was like a precisely delivered frozen bomb, its effect immediate and immediate. Assistant Lin had no further news of Li Wei, and her mother had confirmed she hadn't received any more strange phone calls. The uncomfortable farce had finally been forcibly brought to a halt. The world was at peace.

I poured all my energy into that unexpectedly rewritten work. The splash of black didn't destroy it, but rather imbued it with a new, deeper undertone. Using scrapers, sandpaper, and even a spray gun, I worked on the rich black, carving traces of varying depths, allowing the underlying metal and previously covered layers of color to appear and disappear, forming an extremely complex texture imbued with a sense of history. The partially obscured metal heart, paradoxically, appears more profound and powerful through this game of concealment and exposure.

I named this work "Quenching," referring to the final step in metalworking and alluding to everything I went through—the high temperature, the forging, the sudden cooling, and the resulting tougher internal structure.

As my residency drew to a close, I began organizing my work and preparing for a final open studio exhibition. This was no longer a limited exhibition for professionals, but a public exhibition. Maria helped me coordinate a larger exhibition space, but finding a new challenge in this vast space to house the "steel giant" I had created over the past few months.

The very process of setting up the exhibition became a re-creation. No longer content with simply hanging paintings on the wall, I utilized the workshop's lifting equipment to suspend some of my heaviest, most sculptural works, creating an oppressive, immersive visual impact. The lighting was carefully designed, shining from different angles, emphasizing the contrast and fusion between the cool shimmer of the metal and the richness of the pigment.

On the opening day, the crowds poured in. Unlike previous exhibitions, which had only seen an elite circle, this time the audience was more diverse, including residents of the local community (many of whom were former steelworkers and their descendants), art students, and curious tourists. Their reactions to these powerful yet unfamiliar works, transformed from familiar, discarded materials, ranged from confusion to curiosity, silent stares, and lively discussions.

Wearing my paint-stained work clothes, I wandered among the crowd, listening to fragmented comments in different languages. A strange sense of satisfaction emerged. My creations had finally left the closed cycle of self-expression and entered a broader public context, generating real and unpredictable interactions with others.

An elderly man with a cane and completely white hair stood for a long time before a work that made extensive use of gears and transmission rods. He reached out his hand, his trembling, calloused fingers gently stroking the cold metal in the air, his eyes filled with a complex, indescribable emotion. He didn't look at me, nor did he speak to anyone else. He simply stood there, as if in a silent conversation with an old friend.

At that moment, I suddenly felt that all the struggles, loneliness, and explorations of the past few months had meaning.

The day of the residency finally arrived. The farewell party was loud but brief. We hugged Maria, the other artists, and the workshop technicians, saying goodbye and promising to stay in touch, even though we knew it would be difficult to see each other again, now that we were so far apart.

Packing was an even more daunting task. Most of the twenty or so completed works needed to be packed and shipped back to China by a professional art shipping company. The cost was staggering, but Maria subsidized some of it with project funds. I only took Quenching and a few of my smallest works with me.

I took one last look back at the vast, now empty studio. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching the indelible stains of paint and rust on the floor like a final goodbye. Here, I had left behind the most concentrated and intense moments of my life.

The plane landed in Beijing. The familiar air, a mixture of smog and dust, was breathtaking. Assistant Lin drove to pick me up, still dressed in a suit and tie, meticulously attired.

"Welcome back, Mr. Zhang."

"Thank you for your hard work, Assistant Lin."

The car drove into the city. The high-rise buildings and the bustling traffic formed a sharp contrast with the desolate industrial heritage of the Ruhr area. A bustling vitality hit us, almost dizzying.

Returning to my long-missed studio, everything remains the same, only covered with a thin layer of dust. The black wall greets me silently, like an eternal coordinate origin. I place "Quenching" next to it, and the dialogue between old and new is silent yet powerful.

My mother cooked a table full of dishes. Looking at my face which was obviously stronger and darker, she chattered with a look of relief.

Life seemed to be returning to some sort of rhythm, but I knew that the inner crust had shifted and new mountains had risen.

The works shipped by sea gradually arrived, were unpacked, and put away. The studio was once again filled, but the atmosphere was different. There was the weight of steel, the dust of foreign lands, and a certain calmness and confidence that comes from tempering.

I didn't immediately embark on a large-scale new project. I needed time to digest and settle. I spent a considerable amount of time organizing the sketches, notes, and photos I'd made during the residency, as if ruminating on every morsel of that experience.

Occasionally, I would go to the foundation office to handle necessary matters. Assistant Lin reported to me on the progress of several recent funded projects, including the young sculptor who had successfully signed a contract with a good gallery and was preparing for a solo exhibition.

"As for Li Wei, there is no follow-up." Assistant Lin reported as a routine matter, his tone calm.

"Okay." I nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

One afternoon, I received a large international package from Switzerland. Inside, I found more than a dozen thick, highly specialized books on art theory and technique, covering fields such as metal casting, industrial aesthetics, and contemporary material art. These books were all hard to find in China.

Attached was a card with a single line of printed text: "For reference only. Chen Hui."

I looked at the pile of books and smiled. This was very old-fashioned.

The days flowed peacefully. I picked up my paintbrush again, but I wasn't in a rush to express myself. Most of the time, I just observed, thought, and painted some simple, back-to-basics exercises.

Until one day, I passed by a hardware store and was attracted by the various new nuts, bolts, and washers displayed in the window. They shone with a regular, cold metallic luster, which was completely different from the weathered discarded parts I used in Germany.

I walked in as if possessed and bought a big box.

Back in the studio, I dumped these brand-new, history-free little metal parts onto the table, gleaming with the precise, dull patina of industrial mass production.

I picked up a smooth, standard M8 nut and turned it between my fingers.

Then, I spread out a piece of pure white drawing paper.

No paint was used.

I simply picked up the nut, dipped it in some black ink, and then pressed it hard into the center of the snow-white paper.

“Click.”

A clear, cold, and extremely regular black circular mark with spiral marks was imprinted there.

Like a starting point.

It's like an end point.

I looked at the mark for a long time.

Then, I picked up the second nut.

A new series has begun.

This time, it is no longer about ruins, but about history and the melting of pain.

It is about order, about standards, about how to find human warmth and how to carve new traces under absolute regularity.

I know this will be a brand new journey.

And I'm ready.