When Will My Childhood Sweetheart Marry Me?-Chapter 249: Behind the Painting
This trip to the Capital had excited Jiang Shuyao for several days.
Not only did her entry win an award, but she also had the chance to meet Master Zongnan in person, and the incidental probing had led to significant progress in a certain matter.
The septuagenarian master did not show his age at all, his entire being radiated with vitality and the presence of a great master.
When she entered, Zong Nan was standing in front of the desk writing; it was Yuan Style regular script, belonging to the same school as the inscriptions on the gates of Yunzhong.
However, after Jiang Shuyao drew closer and took a closer look, she noticed some slight differences from the Yuan Style. Compared to the elegant and flowing brushwork of Mr. Yuan Ruomei, Zong Nan’s strokes possessed a more robust vigor.
She thought of the lifelong friendship between Zong Nan and Yuan Ruomei, one a pillar of the calligraphy world and the other a legend of the painting arena.
The two had known each other since their youth and still cherished each other even in their old age; this probably was the modern version of the sublime friendship between Bo Ya and Zi Qi.
Mr. Zong disliked being disturbed while writing; his assistant hadn’t had the chance to warn Jiang Shuyao before, but seeing the girl standing quietly by his side, admiring without speaking or issuing any comments and watching with utmost seriousness, the assistant knew she understood the big picture.
A piece of writing took almost half a teacup’s time.
With bold and unrestrained strokes, his writing seemed to engulf the mountains and rivers.
It was the last two verses from "Yumen Pass."
Zong Nan put down the brush and casually picked up the tea bowl beside him, lightly scraping the tea lid, and asked the girl leisurely, "How old are you this year, young lady?"
The voice of the seventy-year-old was rich with undertones.
He must be a person who greatly valued health preservation.
Jiang Shuyao slowly withdrew her gaze, meeting Zong Nan’s serene eyes as she responded, "Twenty."
Zong Nan nodded upon hearing this.
"To have such a grasp of the artistic realm at the tender age of twenty is indeed a talent bestowed by nature."
For a young person who loved painting, receiving praise directly from Master Zongnan truly was an exceptional honor.
Jiang Shuyao suppressed her emotions and spoke softly, "Thank you, Mr. Zong, but as for this work winning an award, it was entirely coincidental."
The assistant couldn’t help but glance sideways; of the many diverse juniors who had entered this room over the years, it was rare for someone to question their own work so directly and straightforwardly.
It was not that those people lacked humility, but that they shared a common trait: a lack of courage to contradict Mr. Zong.
After a brief silence, Zong Nan smiled faintly and said, "Let’s hear it."
Jiang Shuyao steadied herself.
"A painting is born from the heart of its creator, and the theme set for this competition was ’Living.’ Everyone’s understanding and perception of this theme differ.
Before registering for the competition, a family member of mine had just passed away; it was those emotions that enabled me to produce a work that so closely matched the theme. At any other time, given my temperament and life experience, I probably could not have produced an outstanding work."
The girl finished speaking quietly, and Zong Nan listened intently, even forgetting to sip the tea resting at his lips.
The assistant was slightly astonished, which was actually the very doubt Mr. Zong had raised before accepting the invitation from the sponsors after learning the rules of the competition.
Such themed art competitions severely limit the creativity of the creators.
While it’s understandable that the organizers want to narrow the scope for judging convenience, it undeniably results in the loss of many potential works.
In fact, Jiang Shuyao was right—her winning an award didn’t necessarily mean she was the best, and others not winning didn’t mean they were inferior to her.
She was a very lucid child, but paradoxically, she had chosen the sensitive path of art, which was both surprising and delightful.
The air grew quiet for a while, then Zong Nan set down the tea bowl and tilted his head, instructing the assistant to fetch something.
During the wait, Zong Nan mentioned her last work "Dawn," Jiang Shuyao hadn’t expected such a young new generation like her to catch the attention of the master for her other works.
Soon, an assistant brought over a scroll and placed it on the table in front of them.
Zong Nan waved to her, beckoning her to come closer, "Yuan Chong has mentioned you to me more than once, saying you two met because of a painting."
Jiang Shuyao was startled.
Yuan Chong?
She didn’t know if it was psychological, but now, whenever that name was mentioned, she became alert and tense all over.
The scroll on the table slowly unfurled, revealing the anonymous work displayed at Zhuo Cubic a year ago, Zhen·Love.
"This painting was created by my last closed-door disciple; the person in the painting is his current wife," Zong Nan sighed softly and then asked her, "What do you think?"
A year ago, Yuan Chong had asked her what she thought of the person in the painting.
Now, Zong Nan’s question wasn’t clear whether it was about the person or the work.
She fell silent, staring at the barefoot woman standing by the seashore in the painting, her eyes beginning to redden uncontrollably.
Lin Zhen was her godmother and Pei Yan’s mother. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎
Whether in the past or in the future, Jiang Shuyao always regarded Lin Zhen as family.
The loss of a loved one, seeing the silhouette in the painting, inevitably brought back all kinds of past memories.
Unlike a year ago, this time facing such a work, she had already confirmed the identity of the person in the painting, and she could almost truly feel, at that time, her godmother’s hesitation and melancholy.
She couldn’t just judge it like last time; this was a rare opportunity, and she thought she could glean some information from Zong Nan’s words.
Jiang Shuyao calmed her heart and said, "I have witnessed the love of many people around me; some are passionate and unrestrained, some are gentle and long-lasting, and others are obscure and awkward. Only I cannot comprehend how someone in this world would place their deepest love at the end of their life."
Zong Nan was profoundly shaken.
He looked at her incredulously, "Is that what you read from this painting?"
She didn’t want to lie, but she had come today with a purpose.
But obviously, the few sentences she had just improvised on a feeling had subtly guided Zong Nan to want to tell her the story behind the painting.
Jiang Shuyao nodded, "I might be wrong, please enlighten me, Mr. Zong."
Hearing her modest words, Zong Nan immediately waved his hand.
This young girl, at such a young age, already possessed an astonishingly high capability to understand various images.
It was truly rare; even he felt inferior.
Three years ago, when this painting was created, Zong Nan was still unable to penetrate the artist’s mindset at a glance.
Yuan Chong’s father, his only disciple throughout his life.
Decades of accumulation allowed the owner of this painting to establish a highly valuable position in the Western art scene. In his plot-haunting years, he encountered his first love, reformed a family, and traveled the world, his life nearly complete.
Yet, for such a happy person, the people and scenes in his brushwork were so ethereal as to lack any human warmth.
Zong Nan didn’t understand, he couldn’t figure it out.
It was only two years later, when news of Yuan Chong’s father’s death suddenly came from across the ocean, that Zong Nan realized that his disciple had been suffering from a terminal illness for many years, already at the end of his strength.
He kept it from everyone, including his own son, teacher, and even the partner he shared life’s hardships with.
At the end of his life, he used his brush to fix his beloved at the intersection of heaven and earth, that surging dark sea like the silence before the arrival of the Grim Reaper, carrying an ominous power that drained the liveliness from the eyes of the living.
