Snow Scene
That tender watercolor of green radish, like a gentle pebble dropped into a deep pond, created ripples that quietly shifted the intensity of my emotions. It didn't erase the shock and pain wrought by the black wall, but it carved out a small, firm space beside it, housing those delicate memories, easily drowned by turbulent emotions.
I began to switch between the two creative states more consciously.
In the morning, when I still have energy, I continue with that massive "project"—copying the black wall. This requires intense focus and physical strength, a test of my will. Like a patient archaeologist, I use my pen to decipher the maddening code I left behind inch by inch. This process is no longer just a post-cathartic process of decluttering; it has become a daily ritual, a reminder of the existence of that dark period and my current coexistence with it.
In the afternoon, as the sunlight shifts and the studio becomes softer, I turn to my workbench. I spread out a small sheet of drawing paper, my palette no longer limited to black, white, and gray. From Zhou Yu's "memory bank"—the videos, diaries, photos, even the dried ginkgo leaves he casually tucked into a book—I'll select a trivial moment and try to recapture it with my brush.
I drew his frown when he was burned by a coffee cup (based on my imagination of a complaint in my diary), the half-blurred sunset in the background of a group photo, the texture of a gray sweater he often wore, and even the tiny shadow cast by the ginkgo leaf necklace in the sun.
These paintings remain small and quiet, not striving for profound expression, but remaining true to the subtle feelings of the moment. They are another kind of dialogue I have with the past, gentle, private, and cherished with an almost reverent regard.
On my workbench, this small "memory corner" gradually expanded. I clipped them to thin ropes with simple wooden clips and hung them up. When a breeze slipped in through the window, the drawing papers would sway gently, like countless tiny, silently fluttering flags.
Sometimes, I'd pick up his painting of green radish and stare at it for ages. Through the clumsy brushstrokes, I could almost see him, after a busy day at work, sitting alone under the lamp, frowning, intensely struggling with his brush and watercolors. The sincerity within that clumsiness moved me more than any skilled technique.
---
I've received some unfortunate news about the Foundation's work. A young sculptor I had high hopes for encountered significant technical difficulties mid-project, facing budgetary overruns, and was on the verge of a breakdown, even considering giving up.
Assistant Lin's report was written objectively and calmly, listing various data and risk estimates. But when I looked at it, what came to my mind was the email from that young man, full of anxiety and self-doubt.
I asked Assistant Lin to arrange a video conference.
The camera turned on, and the young man on the other end of the screen looked exhausted, his eyes evasive, full of the shame of a loser. The studio behind him was a mess, and the unfinished sculpture was half-covered with cloth, like a monument to failure.
Without much greeting, he began to explain the technical difficulties directly. He spoke very quickly, interspersed with a lot of professional terms, as if he was building a defensive barrier.
I listened quietly without interrupting him until he finished speaking, then fell silent, waiting for me to make a "rational" decision based on the risk assessment report - most likely to terminate the funding.
I looked at his tightly pursed lips and the dark circles under his eyes, and suddenly asked a question completely unrelated to the project: "Why did you first want to do this work?"
He was stunned, obviously not expecting me to ask this. He opened his mouth but couldn't answer for a moment.
"Is it because you like the feel of a certain material? Or is it because you have an idea in your heart that you must express? Or do you simply think it's cool to do so?" I continued to ask in a calm tone.
The silence on the other end of the screen lasted even longer. The defensiveness in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by confusion, and then a glimmer of light that had been buried for a long time.
"I..." he began hoarsely, "I just...one time I saw a piece of flattened copper in a scrap yard. The sunlight shone on it, and its curvature...its color...made me feel...very sad, yet beautiful. I wondered...if I could recreate that feeling...
"Then remember this," I said. "All the problems you encounter now are about figuring out how to create that 'sad yet beautiful' feeling. The foundation will work with you to figure out the money. But only you can grasp that feeling."
I didn't say any empty words of encouragement, but simply brought his attention back to the original intention of creation.
He stared at the screen blankly, his eyes slightly red. Then he nodded heavily: "I understand. Thank you."
After the meeting, I sent a message to Assistant Lin, asking him to coordinate resources to the greatest extent possible to support the young man in completing the project, and even consider having the foundation cover any overspending.
Assistant Lin quickly replied, "Got it. But judging by the return on investment, this decision is extremely risky."
As I read the message, I could almost imagine the trade-offs and calculations Zhou Yu would have to make in a similar situation. I took a deep breath and replied, "For some investments, the returns aren't reflected in the financial statements."
After clicking send, I felt a strange sense of peace. I seemed to understand Zhou Yu a little better—I understood how he, within a framework of absolute rationality, had opened up an irrational path for me. Right now, I was using the "capital" he had left me to carve out a small, possible path for another struggling soul.
---
Chen Hui occasionally emails me, usually sharing articles from niche foreign art journals or exhibitions she thinks I might find interesting. The PS is a brief note like "for reference" or "perhaps you might like to follow." There's no emotional connection, but it's a way for her to stay connected, a way she excels at.
I would carefully read the things she sent me. Some were too theoretical, and I only half understood them; others offered unexpected insights. Once, she sent me a paper on "Trauma and Artistic Expression," which mentioned the concept of "self-healing through repetitive behaviors." I stared at the words and pondered them for a long time.
At the end of December, there was a heavy snowfall in Beijing.
The whole world suddenly became white and silent. I wrapped myself in a thick down jacket, pulled my scarf up to cover half my face, and walked through the thick snow to the small hill we had visited countless times.
The hillside was covered in snow, its original appearance unrecognizable. The outline of the city in the distance was blurred by the snow. There was no one around, only the sound of falling snowflakes.
I stood there, the white breath I exhaled quickly dissipating into the cold air. No sadness, no words, just standing there quietly, as if performing a silent ritual.
After a long moment, I pulled the ginkgo leaf necklace from my pocket. The metal gleamed coldly under the snow. I clutched it tightly in my hand, the chill reaching deep into my heart.
Then I let go of it and watched it lying quietly on the white snow, like a small, black period.
I didn't bury it, nor did I take it away. I just let it sit there for a while.
After a few minutes, I bent down, carefully brushed off the snow, picked it up again, and put it back in my pocket. The metal still had the coolness of the snow.
Turning around and going down the mountain, a lonely trail of footprints was left on the snow, which was soon covered by new snowflakes.
Back in the studio, still cold, I took off my coat and walked to the easel.
The piece of drawing paper with only two cross lines drawn on it was still mostly blank.
I mixed the colors. I didn't use black, nor did I use the colors in my memory. Instead, I used the purest titanium white, mixed with a little bit of blue, to simulate the cool tone of the sky after snow.
Then, I started painting.
It is no longer a memory, no longer an analysis of emotions, and no longer the capture of subtle fragments.
I paint the snow-covered roofs outside the window, the dander accumulated on the bare branches, the halo of light from the slow-moving car lights on the distant street, blurred by the snow. I paint this moment, the present, this cold and clean world without him.
The brushstrokes are calm and sure.
I painted for a long time until the sky outside the window darkened again and the snow scene on the paper gradually became hazy in the twilight.
I put down my paintbrush and looked at the almost finished, icy snow scene.
Suddenly, I used a very fine brush to add a tiny touch of warm yellow to the imaginary snow-covered windowsill in the lower right corner of the painting.
Like a lamp, just lit in the snowy night.
That touch of yellow, though insignificant, instantly changed the atmosphere of the entire painting.
I know winter is still going on.
But some things are indeed different.
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