Chapter 128 Key (Brass Feel Ver.) Ayumi: Although I...
"Um."
Shiho remained calm and nodded calmly.
She even turned the key over and pointed at the brass back with a serious look.
"Look, it's that kind of...conceptual art style." Her tone became increasingly professional. She even started acting... She even got her hands dirty...
Ahhh, "conceptual art" has even been brought out. Miyano Shiho, a contemporary language artist, is a landslide in the world of bullshit.
"Conceptual art?"
This word was obviously beyond Ayumi's cognition, and it exploded in her mind, leaving a blank of confusion and awe.
Dimensionality reduction strikes, which is like using postmodern terminology to fool a primary school student.
Ayumi: Although I didn’t understand, I was deeply shocked.
At this moment, the way Ayumi looked at Shiho was roughly the same as how an ordinary person looked at an academician of the Chinese Academy of Sciences.
"right."
In Shiho's mouth, lies are given scientific rigor and logic.
"I have a friend who is an avant-garde artist. Her creative philosophy is to deconstruct the functionality of everyday objects and give them new symbolic meaning."
"Like this piece." She held the key up to the light.
"It has the shape of a 'key,' but is stripped of its actual function of 'unlocking.' Retaining only the symbolic concept of 'entry,' by defining it as a 'fridge magnet,' it explores the alienation between 'desire,' meaning food, and 'door,' meaning keys,' in domestic spaces."
"It's a postmodern, ironic aesthetic."
She was really, really crying... She was really exaggerating...
"I have a friend"—a classic opening. Is that friend called Hollywood Temptress?
There is nothing wrong with the "avant-garde artist" Vermouth. After all, she is the Thousand-Faced Witch, and what she does is performance art.
Deconstruction. Symbolic meaning. Alienation. Postmodernism. I almost believed it.
This thing, called a "key," doesn't open the door; it's a symbol. I call it a "fridge magnet" to explore the question of, when you look at this key on the refrigerator door that "can enter but can't leave," and then think about the food you crave inside, doesn't it feel ironic? Doesn't it feel like the relationship between people and objects is strange? This is art.
Chinese translation (down-to-earth version): This thing looks good but is useless, just like my life, so it is art.
This is how I write my papers from now on. When my advisor asks why I can’t write it, I tell him I’m engaging in a postmodern, ironic academic expression.
After she finished saying these words, which even she herself felt were ridiculous, she looked at Ayumi quietly with an expressionless face.
Yes, even she herself thought it was outrageous, but her expression management was perfect. The Oscars owe you a little golden man.
As long as I'm not embarrassed, others will be embarrassed. Social psychology has it nailed.
Queen's behavior: Use the most professional terms, make the most outrageous remarks, and then observe your reaction with the coldest eyes.
May I ask, in Shiho's artistic interpretation of this "refrigerator magnet", which of the following philosophical ideas did he mainly use?
A. Existentialism: The essence of a refrigerator magnet precedes its existence.
B. Deconstructionism: breaking the binary opposition between "key" and "refrigerator magnet".
C. Made up: Just say it casually, but Ayumi must believe it.
D. Capitalism: Explores the alienation of food (means of production) and doors (tools of production).
Ayumi Yoshida's little mouth was frozen into a perfect "O" shape.
Her CPU was clearly overloaded. The data stream in her eyes went through a series of updates within five seconds: "Wow," "I really want it," "I don't understand," and finally "Anyway, that's amazing."
"Wow……"
Finally, her interjection dragged out.
"Shiho... your friend's state of mind is so terrifying..."
"Basic operations."
Shiho calmly waved her hands, with a sophisticated expression that said, "You don't understand art yet."
She gracefully placed the so-called "conceptual art fridge magnet" back into its box and, with a click, closed the lid. Her movements were so smooth, as if they had been rehearsed so many times that the Oscars would have awarded the prize on the spot.
Glancing at the message on the letterhead, Shiho felt her blood pressure begin to soar.
Vermouth.
This woman is really speechless... She is sick.
At this moment, the image in her mind instantly filled her mind.
A luxury hotel terrace. A slender cigarette. A swirling glass of red wine. Deep blue eyes. A sly smile.
The woman was definitely laughing at the embarrassment of being forced to speak nonsense in front of her friends with a serious face.
Damn it, I want to punch her.
Vermouth packaged a token of great significance into a childish prank.
Then, using "express delivery", the most standardized channel in modern society, it is precisely airdropped into the "daily life" that she strives to maintain.
This is simply extreme pressure.
The subtext is obvious: the glass greenhouse you built called "Daily" can be destroyed with just a flick of my finger.
At the same time, this is also an admission ticket: Come and play, Shiho, in this script-killing game, we are the only two VIP players.
And the "refrigerator magnet" lie that Miyano Shiho came up with in a hurry has now become a frustrating but clever part of this farce.
That's amazing. It's like Bulbasaur eating Cheetos and entering Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. It's so amazing.
Vermouth would definitely enjoy this impromptu performance. Isn't it this kind of absurd script full of black humor that that woman loves most?
Ayumi had clearly etched this into her DNA. The look in her eyes towards Shiho was filled with even more admiration.
"So, are we going to put this fridge magnet on Shiho's fridge? It would look super cool!"
"no."
Shiho answered immediately, her expression serious as if she was defending some inviolable territory.
"A work of art cannot be tainted by the smell of pickles from the refrigerator. It's an insult to the creator."
"Oh, oh...that's true." Ayumi shrank her neck regretfully, and nodded in confusion but with a sense of authority.
For the next hour, the Latin turned into complete gibberish.
Each letter kept jumping around in her mind, frantically trying to make its presence felt.
I couldn't read a single word of the book.
The only program running in the background of the brain is the question mark represented by the brass key.
The question mark seemed to have its own barrage of comments, madly scrolling through her mind:
[Hey, Miyano Shiho, don't you think the script of your stage play called "A Stable Life" is terrible?]
"Is that all you're after? Will you continue to be your good student, or... use me to open the door to a new world?"
The setting sun finally tinted the library with a warm orange hue. Ayumi packed her bag and bowed contentedly to her.
"Shiho, thank you so much for today! I feel like I've nailed this exam! See you tomorrow!"
"See you tomorrow." Shiho waved, and the standard arc of her smile was comparable to a textbook.
Ayumi's figure disappeared at the end of the bookshelf.
The library returned to silence.
The smile on Shiho's face disappeared instantly.
She took out the black velvet box and opened it again.
The brass key shone warmly and felt vintage in the sunset. She picked it up and placed it in her palm.
The key is heavy, the metal is cool, and the touch is real.
A declaration of war.
A love letter.
A trap.
A gift.
Vermouth, the woman who jumps back and forth on the boundary of light and shadow, extends an invitation to a date with her hopeless romance and madness.
Shiho slowly clenched her hand and held the key in her palm.
There was no way. She had to admit that the game had already begun, and she had been dragged to the gambling table long ago.
The deeper emotions...are sparks that even she doesn't want to admit.
It was the helpless factor called "excitement" that was ignited by this sudden farce.
Life doesn't seem so boring anymore.
Pop.
The book is closed.
Shiho slipped the unexpected coin into her pocket.
Get up and leave the reading room.
"Curiosity," she murmured to herself, shaking her head. "A scientist's eternal, fatal weakness. What a flag."
The address on the note led Miyano Shiho to a teaching building.
The door is not locked.
This "welcome" gesture is a bit too deliberate. The entrance to a trap usually looks like this.
She pushed open the door, and a dusty feeling hit her face. It was the smell of old books and aged wood, mixed with the musty odor of time.
On either side of the corridor, office doorplates displayed a row of doctoral degrees. Each name represented a mountain of scholarship. And these were mountains that Miyano Shiho had already climbed with ease in her teenage years.
She held her breath.
The footsteps still couldn't be completely eliminated. After all, she wasn't a professional secret agent.
"Da, da, da."
In this quiet corridor, the echo dragged on for a long time.
At the end of the corridor, room 345.
The frosted glass door cast a warm yellow light. The overly comfortable light, however, betrayed a sense of danger. As the saying goes, when things are out of the ordinary, there must be something fishy going on.
"Now that I'm here," she said to herself, "I can't just turn around and run away now, can I?"
She fished out the key from her windbreaker pocket, placed the tip of the key in the lock, and then paused, her ear pressed against the cold door.
Behind the door, there is an absolute sense of silence.
Shiho exhaled.
Insert the key into the lock and turn it.
“Click.”
The door unlocked with a click. She pushed it open a crack, shifting her weight back and raising her heels slightly, ready to run at any moment.
However, the world behind the door did not match any ambush scene she had rehearsed in her mind.
There is no black muzzle of a gun, no icy face of Gin, and no funny scenes contributed by Vodka.
Shiho found herself standing in a private laboratory.
[Bullet comment: Wake up, workers! It's time to submit the APTX4869 R&D report you owe the organization!] (bushi)
It wasn't a big place, but every bit of it exuded an expensive vibe. It was sophisticated, expensive, even...luxurious.
The space is not large because everything is custom-made, rejecting extravagance and waste; and it is sophisticated and expensive because every penny of the budget is spent wisely.
"My taste needs no explanation." She seemed to hear a female voice whispering in her ear.
So, this isn't a proper laboratory at all. It's Vermouth's personal showcase, a blend of financial prowess and academic taste, the impassive peacock display of the Thousand-Faced Witch.
An antique Leica microscope from the 1960s stands quietly next to a state-of-the-art spectrum analyzer.
The comments were flooding the screen: "Wow! Antique Leica! This thing is a top-tier financial product now, right? It's worthy of being displayed in a museum! Vermouth, how much funding did you receive from the organization? Gin wants to light a cigarette for you after hearing this."
This combination is a postmodern aesthetic collage. Playing with antiques from the last century in the left hand, operating the latest generation's cutting-edge technology in the right. What a truly international superstar style! (Tactical fadeaway).
This is a kind of "structuralist" display of wealth, which highlights a core idea through the juxtaposition of opposing elements - I am rich and have good taste.
An entire wall of glass cabinets displays countless chemical reagents.
The liquid in the reagent bottle transitioned from pure transparency to bright yellow, then to a passionate red, and finally settled to an almost inky purple. It was a complete and gorgeous color spectrum.
[Commentary: "Is this really not a lipstick wall at a beauty counter? From N01 to N99, every shade is available."]
Shiho's occupational disease has kicked in.
"The placement of these bottles completely violates the regulations for the classification and management of hazardous chemicals," she muttered. "Putting flammable materials and strong oxidizers so close together—are they trying to stage a 'art is explosion' scene?"
That woman, Vermouth, is really unreliable.
Her gaze finally fell back on the Leica microscope.
The slender fingertips reached out and touched the cool brass.
In the center of the room, the classic camera movement of the Queen ascending the throne.
Lens language: slowly advancing, focusing on the center, the sense of oppression is about to overflow the screen.
Behind a huge antique desk.
Vermouth sat upright.
It's the gateway to a new world (and the Queen's Court).
Her brilliant blonde hair was neatly combed back, and she wore a pair of elegant glasses on her nose. She was looking down, concentrating seriously on an open leather-bound notebook.
Glasses, this prop directly adds the buff of abstinence and the temperament of a badass academic girl.
Combed blonde hair + glasses = the ultimate “gentlemanly villain” look.
This perfectly illustrates Foucault's "knowledge-power" theory. Knowledge is not only power, it itself is a kind of power that can shape images and create charm.
Chinese translation: Not only can I handle guns, I can also do academic research. I just want to ask you if you are afraid. Hehehe.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
