welding

The mark left by a brand new nut on the pure white drawing paper is clear, cold, and almost merciless. Unlike the weathered discarded parts of the Ruhr, which carry their own silent history and stories, these standard parts, produced on the industrial assembly line, have only a kind of precise indifference that distances people from afar.

A sense of challenge replaced nostalgia. I was fascinated by this "characterless" material. How could I, within these absolutely regular geometric forms and their cold sheen, break their silence and carve a trace of "humanity"?

I began experimenting. I heated nuts, bolts, and washers, observing the subtle changes in color at different temperatures. Then, while still hot, I pressed them onto specially heat-resistant cardboard, leaving burn-like marks. I dipped them in acid, inducing a controlled, unique rust. Using a massive press, I flattened and twisted them, destroying their naturally standard forms, and then made rubbings of these violently altered forms.

The process is more like a scientific experiment, recording the results of various variables. The studio is filled with various trial and error samples, and the air is filled with a strange smell of metal, chemicals and paper.

Assistant Lin brought me a recent report on the domestic art market and some documents that needed signing. He cast a brief glance at the cold metal parts and strange chemical reagents on my desk, but asked no questions, demonstrating his professionalism.

"The foundation recently received several new applications, which tended to be technology art and bio-art, and there were some disagreements in the review process," he reported routinely.

"Send the information to my email so I can take a look." I said as I adjusted the parameters of the press.

"Okay." He paused, then added, "There have been recent rumors of senior management changes at the investment bank where Ms. Li Wei previously worked. According to indirect information, she didn't seem to receive the promotion she expected and may have left. However, her current whereabouts are unknown."

I paused. Quitting? That was a bit unexpected. Given her calculated and goal-oriented personality, this was a significant setback. But that small moment of surprise quickly dissipated. Her world, her ups and downs, no longer concerned me.

"Got it," I replied calmly, returning my attention to the press. "As for the Foundation, you don't need to tell me anything about her from now on."

"I understand." Assistant Lin nodded slightly and said no more.

After he left, I looked at the standard nut about to be flattened under the press, and a sense of peace settled within me. The ghosts of the past had been tempered and refined, and could no longer cast a shadow over my new territory.

New creations require new knowledge. The thick, brick-like professional books Chen Hui sent me came in handy. Reading them became a new daily ritual. The rigorous, sometimes even obscure, German and English terminology required immense patience to decipher. While the process was tedious, it brought a sense of intellectual stability. I could almost sense the precise, rational, and efficient "feeding" Chen Hui had put into selecting these books.

I even started teaching myself simple 3D modeling software, attempting to construct the abstract structures in my mind in virtual space. The lines and curves on the screen and the cold metal parts in my hands formed two mutually reflecting worlds.

Occasionally, I email Maria. She sends me updates on the art center and news from the local art world. I also send her photos of some of my experimental samples. Her responses are always brief and to the point: "Not strong enough," "The colors are too direct," "Try electrolysis."

Oleg emailed me from Ukraine with a few photos of his new work. It was still a massive, rugged, and powerful metal composition, but the background had been transformed into a war-torn landscape of ruins. In the photos, he stood beside the work, his expression more somber, his eyes still sharp. I replied with a few words, discussing technical details without touching on the war. Some pain needs no words; it's all in the material.

The days passed steadily, a mixture of experimentation, reading, and the occasional email exchange. The new series of works gradually gained direction. They no longer evoked the grand narratives of the Ruhr region, mingled with a sense of historical pathos. Instead, they became more sober, more restrained, and more focused on the exploration of formal language itself, exploring the delicate balance between standardization and variation, order and chaos, and the traces of industry and human hand.

One brisk autumn weekend, I took my sketchbook to a suburban junkyard. I wasn't looking for ready-made materials, but rather to observe. I observed the car wrecks, compressed into standard cubes, and saw how, despite the sheer force of the destruction, they still retained indelible traces of their original form's struggle.

I sat down in front of a pile of scrap metal and quickly sketched the distorted forms that were bounded by a regular framework.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was an unfamiliar domestic number. I hesitated, then answered.

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Zhang Chenzhi?" A strange, polite young male voice.

"I am. Who are you?"

"Hello, Mr. Zhang. Excuse me for disturbing you. I'm Zhao, the editor of Art Frontier magazine. Our magazine is currently planning a special feature on 'The Survival and Creative State of Young Artists in the Post-Pandemic Era.' I've noticed your previous residency project in Germany and some of your recent developments. I wonder if you would be available for a brief phone interview?"

I was stunned. Art Frontier is a very prestigious publication in the industry. How did they notice me? Did Maria recommend me? Or...

I suppressed my doubts and remained calm. "Thank you for your attention. However, my recent work is still in the exploratory stage, so it may not be suitable..."

"Don't worry about the maturity of the work," Editor Zhao said, perceptive and immediately taking over. "We're focused on the artist's thinking and practice during this period of transition and exploration, which is more valuable than presenting a perfect result. Also, we understand that your 'Expired Spring' Foundation has a unique model for supporting young artists, and we'd love to discuss it."

His words were professional and his attitude sincere. I paused for a moment. Exposure is a double-edged sword, but perhaps... it's also an opportunity, a chance for my work and thinking to be seen more widely, and perhaps even spark more connections.

“Okay,” I finally agreed, “but I’d like the interview to focus more on the creative process itself.”

"Of course! That's great!" Editor Zhao said happily. "What time is convenient for you?"

We agreed on a time. After hanging up, I looked at the car wreckage, crushed into standard blocks, with mixed feelings. There's always a natural tension between the purity of creation and external attention.

The interview went smoothly. Editor Zhao was well-prepared, and her questions were insightful, not superficial. We discussed the benefits of our residency in Germany, the shift from personal emotional expression to a more macro-level exploration of material language, and briefly discussed the foundation's philosophy of "investing" in young artists—not charity, but the discovery and support of a different kind of "irrational value."

After the interview was published, it sparked a small reaction within the industry. I received several exhibition invitations, and although I cautiously declined them all, the feeling of being included in a broader conversation was refreshing. Chen Hui even sent me an email with a single sentence: "I saw the interview. The logic is clear. Good."

The biggest change has come from foundations. Since the interviews, the number and quality of applications have significantly improved. Many applicants are no longer simply seeking funding; they identify with the foundation's philosophy and are eager to join this "irrational" community.

Assistant Lin became even busier, but he seemed to enjoy it. Sometimes he would come to me with a few particularly interesting applications to discuss, his eyes twinkling with a different light than when he was dealing with financial statements.

"This person's idea is very bold, although the risks of implementing it are extremely high..."

“This project is very solid technically, but seems to lack a breakthrough in concept…”

He began to look at the applications with an almost "curator's" eye.

I looked at him, feeling both amused and relieved. The cold capital Zhou Yu had left behind seemed to be slowly warming up in a way he hadn't anticipated.

On a late autumn evening, I stood at the window of my studio. The street below was brightly lit and the traffic was flowing.

On the workbench lay the latest experimental work. No longer a rubbing, but an attempt to meticulously re-weld and reassemble those modified standard parts into a brand-new, tiny structure imbued with a cold beauty. Next to it, a half-read German materials science book lay spread out.

My phone screen lit up with a photo from my mother. She and my father (their relationship seemed to have softened considerably after my return, due to their shared concern for me) were making dumplings at home, their smiles warm.

In the distance, on a bookshelf, the black wall stood silently, with Quenching echoing beside it. Further away, several new works were packaged and about to be sent to a small group exhibition.

Past, present, future. Pain, exploration, peace. Personal, public, industry.

All these lines are no longer chaotically intertwined, but gradually become clearer, like the carefully welded metal structures on a workbench, each in its place, forming a complex and stable whole.

I know that the Li Wei episode is long gone, and the tempering of the Ruhr has become ingrained in me. The road ahead is still long, with many challenges, and the pain and joy of creation will continue to alternate.

But I am no longer confused, nor am I afraid.

I picked up a smooth, cold pad and rubbed it gently between my fingertips.

Then, walk over to the workbench.

The next structure is waiting to be welded.

The next question is waiting to be answered.

And I know that I have all the tools and power I need.