structure
Structure No. 1 leans against the wall, like a cooled metal ingot, silently radiating its inner energy. It no longer demands any emotion from me, but simply exists, proving the completion of a certain transformation.
The easel became empty again, a clean void waiting to be filled, rather than the nothingness before.
I picked up the charcoal pencil, my wrist steady, and placed a decisive, hard vertical line in the center of the new canvas. It split the blank space with an unquestionable determination, like a declaration, like a landmark.
The palette still held the remnants of the complex metallic colors used in "Structure No. 1." Rather than washing them, I squeezed in new pigments—a calmer cobalt blue, a more fiery vermilion, an earthy ochre, and even some fine, ground sand for texture. I aimed not at a single color but at a more encompassing, earthy blend.
My brushstrokes were no longer limited to constructing clear geometric forms. Based on that vertical central axis, I began laying down large, layered, and varied base colors. My brushwork became freer, even taking on a touch of expressionism, yet always constrained by an inherent sense of order, unfolding around that solid "backbone."
I'm not depicting an external landscape, but rather constructing an inner landscape. It's a new continent that has re-emerged after experiencing emotional earthquakes, lava eruptions, and glacial erosion. It may be riddled with ravines, studded with mineral deposits, or desolate, yet it's brimming with pristine vitality and the possibilities of the future.
The painting process becomes a dialogue with the material, a game of form. Sometimes I strike boldly, sometimes I carve delicately. Sweat drips into the paint, and my fingertips rub against the rough fibers of the canvas. It's a dual output of physical and mental effort, exhausting yet exhilarating.
During this time, Assistant Lin brought in the foundation's annual audit report for signature. He walked in, his eyes habitually scanning the black wall before landing on the newly painted "Structure No. 1." He paused for a few seconds, his eyes widening slightly behind his glasses before finally looking at the new, more ambitious work in progress on the easel.
He didn't ask any questions, just quietly waited for me to finish signing. Before leaving, he hesitated for a moment, pushing his glasses up, and said, "Mr. Zhang, this new one... is very different."
“Yeah,” I replied, not taking my eyes off the canvas.
"Very good." He added two words, and then left quickly as if he had completed an extra task.
I watched him from behind, feeling both amused and strangely moved. Even Assistant Lin, who was most particular about return on investment, seemed to have sensed a shift.
Chen Hui sent me an email with no attachments, just a link. Clicking it revealed an application for a niche artist residency program in Europe focused on material and conceptual art. The application deadline was approaching.
The body of the email contained only one sentence: "Try?"
I stared at the words, my fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. A residency? Leaving Beijing? Leaving this studio and life, so etched in Zhou Yu's memory? For a completely unfamiliar environment?
My heart instinctively tightened, and panic ran through me like a tiny electric current.
But I didn't close the page immediately. I dragged my mouse, carefully reading the project details. Located in an old industrial city in Germany, the project emphasized local creation within a specific historical context, offering a large studio and professional technical support.
A strange, almost throbbing desire emerged from beneath the panic-stricken soil.
I looked at the unfinished work on the easel, at the hard vertical line, at the land and gullies that were forming around it.
What can I bring with me? What can I create there?
My fingers stayed on the keyboard for a long time.
Then, I moved my mouse and clicked “Apply Now.”
The application process itself felt like a creative endeavor. It required preparing a portfolio, a creative plan, and a personal statement. I revisited the "Path" series, the black wall record, memory fragments, "Structure No. 1," and the new work I was currently working on. I tried to explain to the unfamiliar reviewers the trajectory of my creative process and how this residency might intersect with my next steps.
When writing this statement, I had to calmly sort myself out. I spoke of loss, memory, trauma and transformation, and how to rebuild inner order from the ruins. My language was clumsy, but as sincere as possible.
The moment I clicked submit, I felt like I was throwing a part of myself into the unknown. Whether it would be accepted or not was no longer within my control.
While I waited for the announcement, I continued working on the new piece. But my mindset shifted. No longer solely focused on my inner construction, I began to ponder the question of "context"—what would my work look like if it were separated from this familiar studio, from the air of Beijing, from Zhou Yu's omnipresent presence? Would it still hold true?
This detached perspective actually gives me a clearer understanding of my current work.
In late spring, the trees outside the studio window sprouted new green buds that were incredibly soft.
I received an email from the residency program committee. My heart skipped a beat as I clicked on it.
It wasn't an acceptance letter, nor was it a rejection letter. Instead, it was an email requesting additional materials, hoping that I would further elaborate on how I planned to utilize the environment of the local industrial heritage site for my work if selected.
They didn't reject me. They saw my application and were interested.
A powerful, long-lost sense of excitement seized me. I immediately plunged into preparing additional materials, researching the industrial history of that German city. Looking at the images of the vast, abandoned steel mills and mines, my imagination was deeply stirred. Those cold, massive steel structures, once brimming with power but now forgotten by time, perfectly resonated with the inner workings of my "Structures" series.
My reply email was written with passion, and I even drew a few scribbled sketches and scanned them in.
After sending the email, there was an even more anxious wait, but this time, the wait was filled with positive anticipation.
A few days later, one morning, I was awakened by the email alert on my phone.
The sender is the Residency Program Organizing Committee. The subject line is: Congratulations...
I sat up suddenly and opened the email.
After the lengthy formal congratulations, the specific stay time and arrangements will be discussed.
I succeeded.
Holding the phone, my fingers trembled slightly with excitement. Outside the window, the sun was shining brightly, and the tender green leaves swayed in the breeze.
After immense joy, a sense of bewilderment and trepidation followed. Was I really leaving? Leaving this place, where everything was stained with memories? Going to a completely unfamiliar country, where I didn't speak the language, for several months?
I looked around the studio, past the black wall, past the fragments of memory hanging on the workbench, past Structure No. 1, and finally onto the nearly finished new painting on the easel.
In the painting, the inner landscape has taken shape, solid and complex, surrounding the vertical spine and full of silent power.
I suddenly understood.
This opportunity to stay, itself, is the next important stroke in the unfolding picture of life, the next area waiting to be constructed.
It is not an escape, but an extension.
It is to carry all the past accumulations - love, pain, loss, and gain - to a new and broader canvas and continue to create.
I took a deep breath, replied to the email, and accepted the invitation.
Then I picked up my paintbrush and walked to the easel.
There is still some time before departure.
Enough for me to finish this painting.
And get ready for the next one.
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