Adjustment
Li Wei's surveillance was like a faint but persistent radio noise in the distance, not fading away, but drowned out by the stronger signal from the vast space of the art center. Chen Hui would occasionally send brief updates, calmly reporting, like a weather report, another innocuous advance, and how she had rebuffed it with watertight official rhetoric. I gradually grew accustomed to this background noise, even developing a touch of cold, onlooker curiosity, wondering how long her enduring "attention" would last.
My attention was almost entirely captured by this huge industrial relic and its own new creations.
Maria introduced me to another artist-in-residence, Oleg, a quiet Ukrainian sculptor who specializes in working with scrap metal. We didn't speak the same language, so we communicated through gestures, simple English, and our shared workshop space. He worked with intense concentration, the noise of hammering and welding metal powerful, like a wrestling match with the material. Sometimes I'd pause my paintbrush to watch him at work, and that pure, physical engagement offered a new kind of inspiration.
Immersed in this environment, my creative direction gradually became clear. No longer content with constructing abstract structures on canvas, I began experimenting with integrating painting with physical objects. I would scavenge rusted rivets, twisted rebar, and worn gears from scrap yards, clean and process them, and then experiment with incorporating them into large-scale paintings.
Paint and rust, the softness of canvas and the hardness of metal, abstract brushstrokes and the concreteness of industrial debris, all began to collide and fuse in my work. The process was challenging, and failure was commonplace. Sometimes the paint wouldn't bond well with the metal surface, and sometimes the overall balance would be disrupted by an overly obtrusive object.
Once, I tried to insert a heavy, rusted chain into a large, nearly finished painting. I miscalculated, and the weight of the chain nearly tore the canvas apart, splattering paint and rust everywhere. Frustrated, I sat on the floor, watching weeks of work nearly unravel.
Oleg came over, looked at the mess, then looked at me. He didn't say anything, just picked up the tools and helped me reinforce the backing of the canvas. Then he found some special epoxy resin, pointed to the joint between the chain and the canvas, and demonstrated to me how to mix it.
His help was silent but practical. The restoration process took two full days, but in the end, not only was the painting saved, but that near-catastrophic episode and the subsequent restoration also added an unexpected, fragile tension. The chain was no longer a forcibly inserted foreign object, but a thrilling, indispensable turning point in the narrative of the painting.
I said to Oleg seriously in my broken English with gestures: "Thank you. Very much." He just waved his hand and went back to grinding his metal block.
This kind of mutual assistance that transcends language and is based on respect for skills makes me feel a solid warmth.
During this time, Assistant Lin from the foundation sent over a quarterly report. The young sculptor, once on the verge of collapse, unexpectedly received a nomination for a major emerging art award. Although he ultimately didn't win, his work garnered considerable attention, and several galleries began contacting him.
Assistant Lin, with his usual rigor, added at the end of the email: "This project's excess investment has already shown initial potential for returns, but its ultimate market value remains to be seen."
I looked at the email, smiled, and replied, "Good news. Keep observing. There's no need to rush."
I know that for that young man, the nomination itself is probably more important than any market value. It means he is "seen", which means everything.
Time flew by amidst the noise of the studio, the smell of paint, and occasional brief updates with Chen Hui about Li Wei's progress. My new series of works gradually accumulated to seven or eight, growing larger and more complex, their mixed media use becoming bolder and more adept. Hanging on the tall walls of my studio, they silently exude an aura that blends the heaviness of history with the energy of an inner struggle.
Maria came to see me several times and each time she didn't comment much, just said, "Good. Keep going." This was the highest praise she could give.
One rainy night, I was alone in my studio, working overtime, adjusting the lighting effects for a new painting. My phone rang. It was a video call request from Chen Hui. This was a bit unusual.
I answered the call. On the other side of the screen, Chen Hui's background seemed to be her laboratory, but it was clearly late.
"Haven't you rested yet?" I asked.
"Some experimental data just came out." Her tone was normal, but upon closer inspection, there seemed to be a very faint, unusual fatigue between her brows, even... a hint of confusion? "There's some new developments regarding Li Wei."
"What's wrong with her?" I asked absentmindedly while adjusting the angle of the spotlight.
"She couldn't contact you, so she seemed to have changed her strategy." Chen Hui's voice sounded a little strange. "She started to provide me with your 'information'."
My hand stopped. "My information? What information could she have about me?"
"Some extremely trivial details from high school. Like how you failed a math test one month and hid in the studio crying, or how you represented your class in a blackboard newspaper competition and won second place, or how you... liked the flavor of milk tea from a shop near the school gate." Chen Hui's tone was filled with a sense of incredible absurdity as he read out these details. "She tried to use these to prove that she'd 'known you for a long time,' and to imply that she understood you... and me better than outsiders believed?"
The final "with me?" with a slight rise in tone revealed Chen Hui's true confusion. Li Wei's behavior seemed to be a show of affection, but inexplicably it pointed to Chen Hui. A strange attempt to establish some kind of intimacy between women, a shared secret?
I was stunned, too. These fragmented details of my youth, nearly forgotten even by myself, spoke from Li Wei's mouth, relayed through Chen Hui, with a chilling sense of strangeness. She was like a paranoid collector, quietly collecting fragments of others in unnoticed corners, believing that these fragments formed some kind of special connection.
"What on earth does she want to do?" I put down the tools in my hands and felt an incredible chill.
"It can't be analyzed using a rational model," Chen Hui calmly concluded. "The behavior is illogical. It seems there's some strong, imaginary emotional projection or obsession. I suggest continuing to block it, and if necessary, adopt a more explicit rejection."
I rubbed my brows and said, "Thank you for your hard work. Next time she says this, just tell her directly that you are not interested in listening and ask her to respect herself."
"I understand." Chen Hui nodded, and then, as if suddenly remembering something, he added, "By the way, how is your project going?"
She rarely asks about my work. I was a little surprised, so I switched the camera to the rear camera and scanned the new works on the wall.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Then, I heard Chen Hui take a very light breath.
“Interesting,” she finally commented, her tone a pure, academic examination. “The confrontational nature of the material and the emotional tension are handled more complexly than before. That rusted chain… was a risk, but a success.”
Her comments were always precise and detached, but this time, I seemed to hear a very faint hint of "appreciation".
“Still figuring it out,” I said.
"Yeah. Keep going," she said, then, as if completing some observational task, "I've finished running the data here. I'm hanging up."
The video call ended. The studio fell silent again, with only the sound of rain outside the window.
I stood there, reflecting on that strange phone call. Li Wei's morbid attention and Chen Hui's rare, somewhat human "Interesting" at the end formed an eerie contrast.
A kind of enlightenment gradually became clear.
Some people, even if they are across the ocean, will use this uncomfortable way to try to prove their existence.
Some people, even if they are right next to you, will only express their most core concerns in the simplest way.
I walked to the window and looked at the huge industrial outlines blurred in the rain.
The steel, history and creations here are real and tangible.
As for those twisted glimpses from the past...
Just let it slide down like rain on the window.
I turned around, picked up my tools again, and walked towards the unfinished work.
The light needs to be adjusted. The angle needs to be more precise.
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