old paintings
After drawing that line, I didn't rush to fill it in. That solitary charcoal mark stretched across the center of the paper, like a horizon, a dividing line, a silent question.
I allow it to be there, looking at it a few times a day and feeling the unresolved possibilities it brings.
My daily routine of copying the black wall continues. This ritualistic act gives me a strange sense of security.
I no longer try to extract any specific meaning or beauty from the chaotic black, but instead focus on the process itself - the rustling sound of the pen tip rubbing against the paper, the subtle changes in the ink gradually seeping through the fibers, and the slight fatigue caused by the repetitive movement of the wrist.
This is a state that is almost like meditation, with the mind empty and only the body working mechanically and attentively.
In this process, some overlooked details emerge: the end of a wild scratch actually carries a subtle hesitation; deep in a thick black, there are a few tentative, lighter strokes of coverage.
I saw myself at that time, being swept up by emotions. In the absolute catharsis, there was still a trace of control intention and a subconscious sense of composition.
I copied these findings again on smaller pieces of paper, almost microscopically, and pasted them next to the corresponding "master" copies. The walls of the studio became more complex, like an ever-expanding analytical map of an emotional state.
Assistant Lin arrived with a batch of Foundation documents requiring signature. As he entered the studio, he paused noticeably, his gaze quickly scanning the main black wall and the dense jungle of paper surrounding it. His eyes blinked behind his glasses, but his supreme professionalism allowed him to regain composure without comment.
After signing, he didn't leave immediately. He hesitated, then pulled a flat, brown paper-wrapped picture frame from his briefcase. "I found it when I was cleaning out Mr. Zhou's old office," he said, his tone steady as always, though his pace hinted at something unusual. "It's at the bottom of a drawer. I think I should give it to you."
I unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was a watercolor, framed in a simple frame. The technique was extremely immature, even a little clumsy, a beginner's exercise—a pot of pothos on the windowsill, sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting dappled shadows.
In the lower right corner of the painting, a small date and signature were written in pencil. The date was his birthday, the year we first got together. The signature was: Zhou Yu.
I was stunned. I had no idea he painted. He'd never mentioned it. In my mind, he had nothing to do with art, except as a spectator and supporter.
"Mr. Zhou probably felt that the painting was not good and was embarrassed to show it to the public." Assistant Lin said softly, as if explaining.
I stared at the painting. The use of green was awkward, the handling of light and shadow flat, but the brushstrokes were incredibly careful, each leaf meticulously depicted, revealing the artist's patience and... a certain clumsy tenderness.
Was he trying to understand my world? In a way he was least adept at? In a world filled with numbers, reports, and KPIs, he secretly squeezed out time to pick up a completely unfamiliar brush and clumsily copy a pot of the most ordinary plant?
My heart felt like it was soaked in warm water, sour and soft.
"Thank you." I said to Assistant Lin, my voice a little hoarse.
He nodded and left quietly.
I placed the small painting on my workbench and looked at it for a long time. It stood out from the wild darkness and the calm sketches around it, like a shy child who had walked into the wrong room.
But its existence gently broke down a hard corner in my heart.
After that day, when I copied the black wall, I felt a subtle difference. Still focused, but with less confrontational analysis and more...inclusive observation.
After another winter rain, the temperature plummeted. I sat in my studio, listening to the patter of raindrops against the windowpanes. Suddenly, I remembered one of those videos Zhou Yu had left behind: a clip of him secretly filming me after evening study in my senior year of high school. In the video, I was wrapped in a thick down jacket, my drawing board strapped to my back, my neck hunched in the chill, waiting for the bus. My nose was red from the cold. The camera followed me from a distance, stubbornly following until I boarded the bus.
At that time I just felt cold, but now when I think back on it, I can taste a hint of warmth.
I dug out the video and watched it again. Afterward, I spread out a new sheet of thick paper. This time, I didn't copy the black wall.
I mixed a very light gray and began to paint the cold bus stop in my memory. I didn't paint myself, just the bus stop sign, the dead leaves blown by the wind, the blurred headlights in the distance, and the cold, waiting atmosphere in the air.
I paint slowly and with great restraint. It is no longer an emotional outburst, but more of a tracing and restoration.
After I finished drawing, I wrote the date of the video in the lower right corner.
It seemed like an unconscious response, a response to his watercolor of green radish.
Over the next few days, I would always take a moment to select a tiny fragment from those videos, diaries, and photos and recreate it with my brush. Sometimes it was the corner of his notebook page, sometimes the blurred background in a photo, and sometimes the sky that flashed by in a video.
These paintings are small and quiet, like silent pearls salvaged from the vast and noisy ocean of memory.
I placed them alongside the small painting of pothos, and they gradually took over a small area on my workbench. They formed a sharp contrast with the wild and analytical copies on the wall, forming another private and gentle memory universe.
One night, I dreamed of Zhou Yu. Not the seriously ill him, nor the high school him, but a blurry, faceless silhouette. He stood in a soft glow, looking at me quietly, then pointed at my heart, then at the small paintings before me.
When I woke up, it was still dark. My heart was clear, without any sadness.
I walked over to my workbench, looking at the small paintings and the green ivy. It suddenly dawned on me that memory has more than one face. It's not just the black wall that carries all the intense emotions, but also these quiet, delicate, easily overlooked fragments.
The true commemoration may not be to be obsessed with the loss itself, but to learn how to pick up the fragments that still sparkle from the ruins of time, and then carry them with us to move forward.
The sky gradually brightened.
I picked up the charcoal pencil and drew a second line on the drawing paper that had only one line drawn on it.
Intersect with the first line.
An extremely simple beginning.
But this time, I knew where it was going.
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