reconcile
After Chen Hui left, the studio seemed to sink into a deeper silence. But the black wall, like a splash of ink, stood there like a silent yet powerful witness, making the silence no longer empty, but instead filled with a certain unfinished tension.
I didn't start a new work right away. After the catharsis, there was a sense of exhaustion and a kind of awe-inspiring observation of the wall itself.
I would spend long hours every day just sitting across from it, watching how those chaotic brushstrokes changed in the light at different times.
In the dim morning light, it appears cold and mysterious; when the midday sun is strong, the thick black seems to swallow up all the light; at dusk, the afterglow of the setting sun will give it a layer of tragic warm color, and the gray-purple will become unusually soft, like a sigh.
I began to discern different layers and emotions within the chaos—angry hacking, helpless smearing, and near-desperate scraping. It was no longer just a wall covered in paint, but a direct reflection of my inner landscape.
A few days later, I set about cleaning the rest of the studio. Instead of throwing away the old clothes that had been stained with paint, I carefully washed them (even though most of the black couldn't be completely washed out), folded them, and put them in a box.
I carefully cleaned the stains on the floor with a scraper, but some inevitable traces were left behind, like scars left by war, each with its own meaning.
During this process, I discovered Zhou Yu's nearly forgotten Iceland photography collection. Opening it again, the experience was different. I could still sense the loneliness he felt as he gazed upon the desolate landscape through his lens, but now, I more clearly captured the clumsy attempt beneath that loneliness to connect with the world I inhabit.
When he wrote "like the kind of gray that Chen Zhi can't mix", what he was thinking about might not just be the color itself.
One drizzling afternoon, I went to a nearby art supply store, holding an umbrella. Instead of buying a new canvas, I bought a large stack of the cheapest, roughest paper and a few ordinary black ink pens.
Back in my studio, I spread out paper on the floor. No idea, no sketch. I simply sit cross-legged, pick up my pen, and let my wrist guide me, leaving marks on the paper.
Sometimes it is crazy, repetitive lines, tangled like a tangled mess; sometimes it is large, oppressive areas of black; sometimes, some vague shapes are unconsciously outlined - a back, an eye, a cold beach.
I'm not painting, I'm writing. In another way, I'm continuing the diary he left unfinished.
The papers quickly piled up into a thick stack. Some I crumpled and threw away after I finished drawing, while others were kept and scattered around the floor. They were a vivid, unvarnished reflection of my emotions. I no longer judged them, but simply recorded them faithfully.
---
The foundation's work continues. Assistant Lin occasionally calls to discuss decisions. His tone remains professional and restrained, but there seems to be a subtle hint of respect. Perhaps my recent unwavering support for several extremely avant-garde installation artists with virtually no market prospects has made him realize that this "client" isn't acting purely on sentimentality, but rather is practicing a certain almost paranoid aesthetic commitment.
I even began anonymously chatting with one or two of these artists online. We didn't discuss theory or technique, but simply their creative state, the moments when inspiration struck and then abandoned them, the fears and longings behind perseverance. This kind of conversation, detached from reality and reaching directly to the core, gave me a strange sense of comfort.
One young man working on a sound installation wrote in an email: “…it feels like digging a tunnel in the dark. I don’t know if I’m going in the right direction, or if I can get through. But if I stop, I’ll be completely buried.”
I stared at the words for a long time. Then I replied, "Then keep digging. Even if it's just to hear the sound of the shovel hitting the stone."
After replying, I looked up at the black wall. It suddenly struck me that we are all digging our own tunnels, tunnels that may never connect, but knowing that someone else is digging just as tenaciously in another tunnel can itself bring a strange kind of comfort.
---
I went back to the small gallery Zhou Yu and I often frequented. This time, I didn't see any exhibitions, but simply sat in a corner of the gallery's café and ordered a cup of his usual American coffee.
Outside the window, people hurried by. I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw those fleeting figures—a man running with a briefcase, a girl looking down at her phone, elderly people supporting each other... My brushstrokes were quick, capturing only movement and outlines, not detail.
As I was drawing, my pen suddenly stopped.
A tall and thin figure wearing a dark windbreaker flashed past the window, walked quickly, and disappeared around the corner.
At that moment, my breathing almost stopped, and my heart felt like it was being gripped tightly by an icy hand.
So similar.
After a few seconds, my sanity returned. I knew it wasn't him. Just a familiar silhouette. But this sudden, sharp illusion, like a poisoned dagger, reminded me of eternity.
I lowered my head, looking at the unfinished, running figure in the sketchbook, my pen trembling as I painted thick shadows around the figure's back, until the paper was almost punctured.
The coffee was cold. I didn't drink it.
When I left, I tore off the sketch, crumpled it up, and threw it into the trash can at the door. But after a few steps, I turned back, picked it up, smoothed it out, folded it in half, and put it in my pocket.
Some wounds will never truly heal. They will scab over and become less painful, but they will open again at some unprepared moment, reminding you of their original appearance.
---
Back in the studio, I taped the crumpled sketch to a small empty space next to the black wall. The blurred, shadow-swallowed figure formed an eerie dialogue with the violent black and the gray-purple tint on the wall.
I picked up my ink pen and thick paper again, but this time, I didn't let my emotions run wild.
I started copying.
I wasn't copying a masterpiece, but rather copying that black wall. I chose a tiny part of the wall, perhaps a few intertwined scratches or a patch of unevenly thick and thin ink, and then, with extreme concentration and almost mechanical effort, I tried to replicate it on paper.
This process is extremely tedious and requires immense patience. I must carefully observe every subtle change in the original painting: the direction of the brushstrokes, the intensity of the force, the depth of the ink. My entire mind is focused on this tiny reproduction, oblivious to everything else, including sadness and time.
When I finally "moved" that small piece of black onto the paper, I found that my arms were numb and sweat was oozing from my forehead, but my heart was strangely peaceful.
I realized that this kind of copying wasn't simply a reproduction. It was a kind of decoding, a calm attempt to understand my own emotions at the time. It was also a form of taming, bringing those once uncontrollable, destructive forces into a controllable, refined order.
I began this massive "project." Every day, I chose a small area of the black wall to copy. I wasn't looking for speed, only for perfection. This process felt like a long moment of silence, a strenuous self-cultivation.
The copied black fragments gradually filled the blank areas surrounding the black wall, looking like samples peeled off from the main wall, or like another form of annotation and deconstruction of the main wall.
One wall of the studio is filled with frenzied raw emotion, while the other is filled with calm, post-analysis. Standing in the middle, I feel as if I'm caught in a crack in time, facing both my past and present selves simultaneously.
---
As autumn deepened, the ginkgo leaves outside the window finally turned completely golden, then fell in a cold rain, leaving only dark, damp branches pointing towards the gray sky.
One weekend morning, I received a video call from Chen Hui in Zurich. The background was her meticulously tidy study.
"Wall, how's it going?" She went straight to the point without any greetings.
I moved the camera to show her the black wall and the sketches pasted around it.
There was a long silence on the other end of the video. Then, I heard her take a very soft breath. "It seems," she said, with the calm wonder of a scientist discovering a new species, "you've found a way to coexist with it."
"Still looking." I answered truthfully.
"Good." She nodded. "Keep it up. Better than the last time I saw you."
We briefly chatted about the foundation's progress and her own projects, and then she ended the call abruptly. Efficiency was paramount, as always. But I knew this was the extent of her concern.
After hanging up the phone, I looked at the bare branches outside the window and felt unusually calm.
Zhou Yu was gone. This fact was as cold and certain as the winter outside the window.
But the love he left behind, and the immense pain that stemmed from that love, didn't destroy me. They became that black wall, those copied sketches, the small bits of support from those young strangers at the foundation, the strange yet strong connection between Chen Hui and me, and the repetitive and ever-changing lines in my brush.
They became a part of me. Heavy, but not unbearable.
I walked over to the easel. It was still empty.
But I know it won't be empty for long.
I picked up the charcoal pencil and gently drew the first line on the blank drawing paper.
Very light, but very firm.
Like a beginning.
It also seems like a promise.
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