The strange laughter stopped at some point.
Unknown creatures await my arrival.
Just by gazing at that petite, dark figure, this realization dawned on me.
For ease of explanation, let's just call it [cat] for now.
Seeing that I didn't move for a while, the cat sat still and turned around. I could clearly feel its gaze from that patch of colorful colors.
That was curiosity.
Like a real cat, it rolled around on the dilapidated wooden floor, chased its tail, elegantly licked its fur, rubbed its itchy neck, and stared intently without looking away. It was as if it were the master of this place, carefully observing me, the outsider, wary of my unusual movements, or perhaps mocking my foolishness in not daring to take a step.
After a short while, the cat seemed to have grown tired of this one-sided performance. It got up again, flicked its tail, and trotted lightly toward the inside.
With the lantern in hand, I carefully avoided the stationary human figures while looking around at my surroundings, following their footsteps as I moved forward.
As the signboard states, this is a rather small gallery.
The portraits were neatly hung on the walls of the exhibition hall, their gilded frames now mottled, revealing traces of insect damage beneath. A lily-shaped art lamp hung shakily overhead, its scattered light no longer clear, as if shrouded by some faint, foreign object, appearing exceptionally dim and murky.
The still human figures are mostly scattered throughout the gallery, like meticulously sculpted statues. Yet, from the changes and variations in their postures, one can discern a multitude of emotions, such as disdain, contemplation, appreciation, amazement, and doubt. Even the fear of the person huddled in a corner with their head in their hands is vividly portrayed. If these statues were truly the work of the gallery owner, even in this environment focused on developing various artistic techniques, the artist would undoubtedly already be a renowned master.
But I had never heard of the name Aisha before, and what I saw was not a magnificent hall dedicated to exhibiting works by famous artists.
It was as if the other party had appeared out of thin air.
Somewhat puzzled, I turned my attention to the exhibited paintings, trying to glean some fragmented information from them.
But I am ultimately just an outsider with only a few rudimentary methods of investigation based on hearsay. I focus more on the surface and cannot see the inside. My understanding of art is limited to the level of "the price is often very high but I can't understand anything about it". Even so, I can still clearly feel the great effort that the painter puts into the painting.
In the meticulously crafted landscape paintings, flowing clouds drift across the azure sky, shimmering white lights dance on the lush green lawn, the vast ocean rolls with waves, the sunset ignites the rose-colored clouds on the horizon, starlight twinkles against the dark night sky, and a stumbling shooting star glitters with the light of hope...
Finally, the torrential rain poured down, and a faint flash of lightning disappeared in the chaotic sky. Thick black smoke rose from the unquenchable flames, engulfing everything in endless darkness.
I stopped in front of the last painting, a question forming in my mind.
The previous paintings depicted beautiful and peaceful scenes, so why does this last one create such a gloomy and unsettling atmosphere?
I naturally understand that an artist's emotional fluctuations have a significant impact on their work, much like an alchemist in a bad mood will inevitably botch a highly demanding alchemical experiment. Just looking at this somber painting, I am almost overwhelmed by the profound despair it exudes, as if drowning in the deep sea, barely able to breathe.
Did you encounter something that made you feel hopeless? Or did you suffer some kind of misfortune?
I can only speculate based on my superficial understanding, but ultimately I have gained nothing.
I turned my head away and walked past the figure crouching with its head in its hands. I came to the door, which was still half-closed not far away, and gently pushed it open.
The cat with the colorful head lay quietly not far away. When it saw me coming, it got up, shook its fur with its paw, turned around, meowed softly at me, and walked inside again.
I was therefore convinced that it did indeed have something it wanted to show me.
The human figures in the second exhibition hall were noticeably sparser than in the first. It seemed that most visitors were deterred by the somber mood conveyed by the last figure, and their gestures also carried a hint of fear and apprehension. The overall tone was also increasingly somber. Similarly, the lighting here was dimmer, with only a few lily buds stubbornly clinging to life, not yet bursting into fragments. The wooden floorboards also showed signs of burning and curling.
Holding a lamp, I examined the paintings on the wall by its light. This time, the paintings were no longer just simple landscapes, but depicted more creatures. A half-withered potted plant, a dying person, a small animal that had been gnawed until half its skeleton was exposed but was not completely dead, a flock of black crows pecking at carrion... But the colors used in these paintings were not entirely dark; they were still the bright and cheerful hues from before, which, combined with the surrounding environment, added a touch of absurdity and eeriness.
I walked quickly past the paintings and almost tripped because I wasn't paying attention to my footing.
Looking back, I noticed that on the almost black ground, there was a human figure crawling, almost completely covered in ink.
The human figure seemed to have tripped over something, just like I had just experienced. Its arms were outstretched, elbows raised as if protecting something, its fists clenched high, its chest and face pressed firmly to the ground, its feet staggered. But unlike me, it wasn't entirely black; its clenched fingers were stained with vibrant colors, like the head of a cat.
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