wreckage

The brief ripples created by the magazine cover quickly faded. The art world's attention was like the tide: swiftly arrived and swiftly departed. But this sporadic spark, like a pebble dropped into a tranquil lake, stirred a more lasting wave within me. It wasn't a vain gratification, but a confirmation—that the path I had chosen, the voice I had emanated, could be received and resonated with by a broader context. It felt like walking in darkness for so long, finally catching sight of the glimmer of another light in the distance.

After completing the "Code·Wreckage" series, I didn't immediately embark on a new large-scale project. Instead, I stored them away, allowing myself some distance and a calm reflection. At the same time, I dedicated more time to the foundation. Assistant Lin seemed inspired, and when processing applications, beyond the inherent risk assessment, he began to discuss the concepts and potential behind the work with me. A new understanding, based on shared judgment, developed between us.

One applicant's project particularly caught my attention. A young woman from a remote area, her proposal was to use bricks, tiles, and wood from a century-old house in her hometown, which was about to be demolished, combined with traditional local weaving techniques to create a series of installations about "lost memories." Her writing was simple yet powerful, and the accompanying sketches, though immature, conveyed a genuine connection to the land.

At the review meeting, some people questioned its technical feasibility and display effect, believing it to be too "rustic" and lacking in contemporaneity.

I looked at the mottled brick and tile photos and rough woven patterns on the screen, and suddenly remembered Oleg's sculpture in front of the ruins of war, and the clumsy pot of green ivy painted by Zhou Yu.

"Contemporaneity isn't a label affixed to the surface," I began, my voice calm but firm. "It's something in our blood. What impresses me about this project is precisely this memory, grown from the land, on the verge of being swallowed up by 'modernity.' Technology can support it, but concepts need to be protected. I recommend its approval."

Finally, the project received support. The girl's thank-you email was filled with incoherent, excited sentences and countless exclamation points. Looking at the email, I could almost see a pair of eyes on the other side of the screen, sparkling with the light of their dreams.

This feeling of indirectly participating in the blossoming of other people’s lives wonderfully nourishes my creative soul.

During this time, Chen Hui's health seemed to stabilize, and her emails returned to their usual frequency and style, mostly cold, sharing technical information or industry news, never mentioning her previous illness or the sculpture. We tacitly maintained a connection based on intellectual respect and a strange kind of trust. Occasionally, she would respond to some of my new work ideas with a harsh but often insightful critique, such as, "This structural support point is as stupid as trying to support an elephant with chopsticks."

I usually smile wryly at the screen and then go back to revising the sketch.

Life seemed to have settled into a fulfilling and stable rhythm. Until one Saturday afternoon, I received an unexpected call. It was my former high school class president, a man still as enthusiastic as ever, now a mid-level manager at a large corporation. In a booming voice, he announced he was organizing a high school reunion.

"Chenzhi! You must come! We haven't seen each other for many years! You are a big celebrity now, you can be seen in magazines! Make our class leader proud!" His tone was excited and he would not tolerate any refusal.

I clutched the phone, speechless. A high school reunion? The one filled with youth, awkwardness, and... countless memories of Zhou Yu? And that... Li Wei?

I instinctively wanted to refuse, but the squad leader's next words shut me up: "Don't worry! I've asked, and Li Wei isn't coming! She seems to be keeping a low profile lately, and I can't contact her. Stop making excuses!"

After much hesitation, a complex curiosity finally took over. I wanted to see what those faces, blurred in the shadows of youth, looked like now. I also wanted to see if I could calmly return to the place where it all began.

The gathering was held at the Chinese restaurant of an upscale hotel. The private room was brightly lit and bustling with activity. I arrived a little late, and the moment I pushed the door open, the clamor paused for a moment as countless eyes focused on me. There was curiosity, surprise, scrutiny, and perhaps even a subtle hint of... pity?

I was dressed simply in a black shirt and jeans, a stark contrast to the many students around me, who were dressed in suits and adorned with jewelry. The class monitor greeted me warmly, patted my shoulder, and ushered me to the main table. We exchanged pleasantries, toasted, and exchanged recent events. The conversation inevitably turned to career, family, and children. I tried to answer briefly about my life as an "artist," turning the conversation on to others.

Occasionally, his eyes would scan the room, revealing those once familiar, now unfamiliar faces, most of them polished by time and society, becoming sophisticated. They chatted about stocks, housing prices, and school district housing, occasionally mentioning a classmate who had gotten divorced, another who had become wealthy, or another who had immigrated... The air was filled with a sense of middle-aged, calculating fatigue.

I listened quietly, observing like an outsider. My heart was calm, unmoved by any ripples, only a faint sense of detachment. The bustle and success stories here, and the rust and loneliness of my studio, seemed like two parallel worlds.

Until a man sitting in the corner, who had been silent the entire time, raised his glass and approached me. His name was Wang Rui. In high school, he was the notorious nerd in his class, with excellent grades but a near-transparent introversion. Even now, he still looked a bit reserved, wearing thick glasses and reeking of a laboratory.

"Zhang Chenzhi," he said softly, pushing up his glasses, "I saw your magazine. The series 'Coding Debris' is great."

I was a little surprised. I raised my glass and clinked it with his. "Thank you. What are you doing now?"

"Me? I'm a researcher, specializing in materials science." He smiled shyly. "So seeing your work makes me feel particularly... familiar. That feeling of trying to find order in disorder while preserving the power of disorder itself is very similar to the topics we face in basic research."

We began chatting, avoiding the noisy crowd, about material properties, structural mechanics, and the subtle and fascinating intersection between art and science. He spoke with clear logic and no utilitarianism, his eyes gleaming with pure intellectual interest.

At that moment, I seemed to have found an isolated island where I could take a short breath in this worldly gathering.

By the time the party ended, it was already late. We said our goodbyes and promised to "get together again next time," even though we all knew we didn't know when that next time would be. Wang Rui and I exchanged contact information.

"We can talk about it if we have a chance in the future. Maybe... we can collaborate on some ideas about materials," he said seriously.

"Okay." I nodded.

Standing at the hotel entrance, the evening breeze blowing away the slight drunkenness, I watched my classmates board their buses and depart, rushing towards their own lives, real or fake.

Back in the empty studio, I took off my jacket, which was stained with cigarettes and alcohol. Silence instantly enveloped me, but it was no longer suffocating.

I walked up to the sculpture by Chen Huisong and ran my fingers over the cold curved surface.

Then I walked over to my workbench and spread out a piece of paper.

No specific image was drawn.

Just use the hardest pencil you can and draw an absolutely straight line.

Then, next to it, draw a chaotic, interlaced trace.

Finally, between the two, draw a question mark.

Not a confused question mark.

But it is a question mark of exploration.

I know, the next journey,

On order and chaos,

Reason and intuition,

Science and Art,

Perhaps, it has just begun.

And this time,

I am no longer alone.