series

After the rainy night, Li Wei's "information" didn't seem to cease, but Chen Hui had clearly strictly adhered to his "no interest" directive. Subsequent reports became extremely brief, often consisting of only the words "Here we go again, rejected." Though the uncomfortable, prying waves from the past continued to be transmitted, the receiving end had already shut down, gradually becoming insignificant background noise.

My whole body and mind were immersed in the conversation with the steel behemoth in front of me.

Oleg left after his residency. Before leaving, he presented me with a small, perfectly polished piece of steel, etched with hideous rust, like a miniature sculpture. Our handshake was firm, and words spoke volumes. New artists-in-residence arrived one after another, and the studio was filled with diverse languages ​​and creative noises. An international, fleeting, and intensely creative atmosphere permeated the air.

I've completed more than a dozen mixed-media works. They're no longer simply paintings, but more like visual fossils, stained with rust and oil, emerging from this industrial soil. Maria is so pleased with my progress that she's even offered to coordinate a small, in-house exhibition for me, inviting local curators, critics, and collectors.

"It's time they saw the light of day," she said, her tone unequivocal.

The week before the exhibition, I spent almost all of my time in the studio, fine-tuning the final details and thinking about the order and lighting of the pieces. The pressure was immense, but I was also sustained by a long-lost sense of excitement at the challenge.

On the day of the exhibition, I was adjusting the angle of a large artwork with the staff when my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Assistant Lin. We usually communicated only by email; he rarely called directly.

I walked to the corner and answered: "Assistant Lin?"

"Mr. Zhang," his voice sounded as steady as ever, but his speech seemed a little faster than usual. "I'm sorry to bother you. I have something to report to you about Miss Li Wei."

My heart sank. Her again? Could she be up to something else?

"What happened to her?"

"She came directly to the foundation's office this morning and asked to see you." Assistant Lin's tone was marked by a rare, offended, professional coldness. "After learning that you were on residency abroad, she requested more detailed information about the foundation's operations, specifically... expressing unusual interest in the flow of funds for your personal artist-funded projects."

My brows furrowed. She'd actually come to my house? And even inquire about the flow of funds? This went far beyond mere concern; it emanated a disturbing sense of paranoia and transgression.

"How did you deal with it?" I asked in a deep voice.

"I rejected all her inquiries on the grounds that they involved the privacy of the donor and business confidentiality," Assistant Lin answered decisively. "But she didn't seem to give up. She left behind some... supposedly your old belongings from high school, saying that passing them on to you might 'evoke some good memories.'" His tone was filled with obvious doubt and a hint of subtle disgust.

"Old stuff?" I felt a wave of absurdity and disgust. "What is it?"

"An old sketchbook with your name on the title page. There are also some... insignificant little things she said you left in the classroom." Assistant Lin paused. "I'm keeping them for now. I'm not accepting any other arguments she made. Do you want me to dispose of them directly?"

Sketchbooks? I did lose one or two in high school... but how did she get them? And still have them? This almost pathological collecting obsession and this sudden escalation in behavior sent a chill down my spine.

"No," I took a deep breath, suppressing my surging emotions. "Keep the things for now. Seal them well and don't touch them. We'll talk about it later. If she shows up again or contacts the Foundation in any way, refuse all charges. We can take legal action if necessary. I'll give you the authority."

"Understood." Assistant Lin responded immediately, "I'll take care of it. Please rest assured."

After hanging up the phone, I leaned against the cold brick wall, unable to calm down for a long time. Outside the window, the huge blast furnace stood silently under the gloomy sky, and a cold, hard sense of reality enveloped me.

Li Wei's behavior has escalated from uncomfortable prying to harassment. Like an actor obsessed with her own imaginary script, she stubbornly wants to drag others into her plot.

A strong feeling of anger and disgust welled up in her heart. But it was quickly suppressed by an even stronger calm. Here, in this place full of hard-core reality, facing the upcoming exhibition, her absurd behavior seemed even more pathetic and ridiculous.

I can't let her succeed. I can't let her dark, sticky tentacles interfere with my real life and creation at this moment.

I pulled out my phone and sent Chen Hui a message, briefly explaining the situation. "Got it," she replied quickly. "If you need any legal or other support back home, I can provide the resources."

Then, I called Maria.

"Maria, regarding the guest list for the exhibition," I said in a remarkably calm voice, "could you please increase security and entry checks? I'm having a minor, personal issue and don't want to be disturbed by anyone."

Maria paused on the other end of the phone, then replied simply, "Of course. No problem. Leave it to me. You just need to focus on your work."

Putting my phone down, I took a deep breath of air thick with paint, rust, and dust. The fire in my chest, ignited by the offense, gradually transformed into a colder, more determined energy.

I walked back to the massive work and continued adjusting its angle, my fingers running over the cold, rough metal inlays, feeling its tangible presence, unshaken by illusory obsessions.

The exhibition was held as scheduled.

The lighting was meticulously tuned, focusing on each work. The cool metal and rich pigments created a dramatic tension under the light. Invited guests wandered through the space, chatting in hushed tones, their faces scrutinizing and curious. Maria, dressed in a sharp black suit, navigated the room with ease, introducing me and my work.

I stood in a corner, a barely touched glass of champagne in my hand, my heart beating steadily in my chest. I felt nervous, but more than that, I felt a strange calm. These works are the result of a dialogue with this land and my own pain. They are solid enough to withstand scrutiny.

No one broke in. The security measures had worked. Li Wei and her dark obsessions were firmly locked out of this real and unyielding world of art.

A female curator with gray hair and a sharp temperament stopped in front of a work for a long time, then walked towards me.

"Mr. Zhang," she extended her hand, her eyes sharp. "Your work reminds me of the destructive nature of G Baselitz, yet it's completely different. This juxtaposition and fusion of personal trauma with the relics of industrial history is very powerful. Your use of found objects is particularly interesting; it's not decorative but structural...

"Thank you." I shook her hand and exchanged a few words briefly.

More and more eyes were focused on me, and questions kept coming in. About inspiration, about materials, about the thinking behind the work. I tried to answer them in my still-fragile English, using gestures.

At that moment, I clearly felt that I was no longer the orphan hiding in the studio licking my wounds. I was an artist, standing in front of my own work, accepting professional scrutiny and questioning.

And I achieved all of this on my own, through countless days and nights of struggle, failure, and wrestling with rusty steel.

After the exhibition, Maria patted me on the shoulder with a look of approval in her eyes: "Well done, Zhang. They're all talking about you."

Back in the empty studio, the noise subsided. I took off the somewhat restrictive shirt I'd put on for the exhibition and changed back into my old, paint-stained work clothes.

There was a new message on my phone from Chen Hui. It contained only a picture.

Clicking on it, it revealed a blurry photo, seemingly taken from a distance. In it, Li Wei stood on the street corner below the foundation's office building, gazing upwards at the structure. Her profile, blurred and unreal in the backlight, evoked a sense of paranoid loneliness.

Chen Hui added a note: "Last update. She should have received a clear signal. Focus on your business."

I looked at the photo, and the last bit of emotion in my heart calmed down.

Like an insignificant footnote, it was finally turned over.

I walked over to my workbench and spread out a new sheet of paper.

Feedback from exhibition visitors, professional evaluations, and scrutinizing gazes...all of these have become new nutrients.

I know the next series is already in the works.

The pen tip falls.

This time, the lines are more confident, without hesitation.