The Versatile Master Artist

Chapter 12: Chapter 3: Fundamentals

In my youth, I was incredibly vulnerable before the face of evil. I’ve seen what a chaotic and disordered society looks like. If I didn’t compromise with Brother Hao, I might lose my life, but when we compromise with evil, we lose ourselves.

— Excerpt from ”The Childhood Memoirs of Artist Gu Weijing”

...

Alongside the sofa, Johann Strauss II’s ”The Blue Danube” had already started its fourth loop on the sound system.

Sometime unknown, rain began to fall outside, pattering softly on the marble steps in front of Gu’s Calligraphy and Painting Store.

Gu Weijing stared blankly at the draft in his hand, as if unaware.

If anyone has been a long-distance runner, they would know the feeling.

At a certain moment during a run, the fatigue suddenly disappears, dopamine surges, and their breathing and heartbeat accelerate; the world becomes quiet and an endless energy flows from the ground up into their body.

Exhausted yet exhilarated.

As if an angel has given him wings.

The science of exercise describes this as the exhaustion cycle, while Japanese manga artists, fond of dramatic flair, often name it the ”godly domain,” ”zero” state, and more in hot-blooded sports manga from ”Shonen Jump”.

And Gu Weijing—

He felt just like that.

In the past thirty minutes, he had hardly stopped moving his pencil.

Shavings from the pencil sharpener had formed a small pile, many scattering across the wooden floor like softly falling snowflakes.

His fingers and wrist turned sore and numb from the continuous high-intensity work.

Gu Weijing, however, didn’t care.

The moment the pencil drew the first line on the watercolor paper, he felt for the first time in his life what it meant to be professional.

Not long ago, he completed an oil painting using the same Mercedes-Benz car model as a reference.

If before he was doing ”copies.”

Now he was creating ”precision.”

If natural talent had him paint ”likeness” before, now his professional-level skills allowed him to paint ”truth.”

This difference was subtle, yet despairing.

Yet, it also filled him with exhilaration.

The parallel hatching technique, layering, flat painting... Sometimes using the edge of a spray bottle to mist water over the water-soluble pencil marks on the paper to blend colors, all these techniques alternated in Gu Weijing’s mind like reflexes.

At his fingertips.

No need to think.

All sorts of intricate light and shadow transitions had already appeared on the watercolor paper.

Every line and stroke seemed as if measured by an industrial laser printer, the hand-drawn straight lines hardly deviating even by a millimeter.

The unique granularity of colored pencil felt like aged film, vividly presenting all facets of the car model beyond just lines—its gloss, even the resin’s distinctive luster was rendered in all its fullness.

His skills precisely concluded just as Gu Weijing laid down the final stroke.

Now he simply absorbed and savored the aftertaste.

[Sketch lv.3 Semi-Professional (351/1000)] The panel before him showed that his sketching experience had increased by more than a hundred points, and several other techniques had risen by ten to dozens of points of various increments.

Just this half-hour under the master painting foundation nearly equaled his past year of hard work.

Gu Weijing raised his head, set down the painting, and smiled in silence.

If he had to find an example to express his current mood.

It would be like Guo Jing, who practiced second-rate martial arts like the ”Seven Swords of the Yue Girl” for over ten years in the Mongolian desert, for the first time witnessing Grandmaster Hong Qigong perform the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms in the Central Plains.

Indeed, the world held such vastness.

...

”Quite decent.”

Master Gu peered through the window outside the gallery, nodding silently.

The old man’s real name was Gu Tongxiang.

Born in the 1940s, he wielded a paintbrush for a lifetime and had some fame in Myanmar.

He had two sons, but the elder had limited talent, and Gu Weijing’s father inherited none of the artistic cells, studying finance in university and now working at a small but historically rich private bank in France.

The most promising heir to the profession of painter in the family was this gifted grandson, Gu Weijing.

Shortly after the Lunar New Year, while visiting an old client, he immediately rushed back upon receiving a text from his grandson informing him of criminal threats approaching their doorstep.

The Gu Family’s financial situation in the local area couldn’t be considered wealthy, but it was arguably well-off.

At least it was considered stable living.

Since the criminal threats appeared, Gu Tongxiang harbored an ever-present, subtle worry about this stability.

The tranquility of their past life turned into a false illusion, like a nest swaying in the wind amongst the branches of a large tree, teetering precariously to maintain a delicate balance.

Gu Tongxiang always had to keep this balance under control and bury his worries deep within.

For this family.

This slightly balding sixty-something old man was not a pine branch forming the nest.

Gu Tongxiang considered himself the large tree itself.

The fledgling birds huddled in the nest, barely maintaining stability amidst the wind.

If the large tree suddenly were to break.

What to do now?

He returned to Gu’s Calligraphy and Painting Shop more than ten minutes ago, seeing the door tightly shut and a sign saying temporarily closed, he called but no one answered, very worried something happened at home, so he leaned on the window of the gallery and looked in, and saw Gu Weijing holding colored pencils.

Gu Tongxiang looked at Gu Weijing concentrating on painting inside, feeling somewhat relieved in his heart.

”He has a calm spirit.”

Mr. Gu has been drifting in the art market for half a lifetime.

He has seen all kinds of scammers masquerading under the artist’s title, and also countless young people full of talent and exceptional gifts who lived half their lives in destitution, neglected, ultimately regrettably leaving the industry to seek other paths.

The industry of being a painter is very cruel.

They need to compete in talent, effort, technique, background, mentorship, schools, resources... You might become famous overnight due to a patron’s recognition, or be a reincarnated Van Gogh, yet remain down-and-out.

After all, even the real Van Gogh was once seen as a madman by the world, wasn’t he?

You see those whose daily job is to ride private jets to travel, or vacation on a private island worth one million dollars in the Pacific Ocean, called ”inspiration trips.” They paint one artwork in half a year, then sell it for tens of millions of US dollars at Christie’s autumn auction, showing off infinitely.

How many such people are there?

Beneath their feet lie thousands who fell on this road called the path of dreams.

Those ninety percent of grassroots painters might not even afford a decent canvas. They are the true depiction of this profession.

Many young people studying art and painting only see the glamour of this industry, and can’t endure its hardships. Ultimately, in university, they change fields to magazine cover illustrations, fashion design, visual post-production art coloring, or even study civil architecture...

While these are all good, it’s still gradually distancing from the profession of being a painter.

Gu Tongxiang has been in this field for so many years, and it’s not out of favoritism towards his grandson, but truly no young person under eighteen, enticed by gangsters, can still calmly pick up a brush and detach from worldly concerns.

Older painters almost universally have more affection for young people who work diligently.

”Hmm? Drawing models again?”

Mr. Gu furrowed his brows again.

He knew his grandson had a knack for grasping space structures, usually enjoying drawing mechanical models for assignments or leisure creation.

Through the glass, Mr. Gu couldn’t see clearly what Gu Weijing was drawing now, but the antique car model on the coffee table and the oil painting assignment drying naturally in the corner were very clear.

”How many times have I told him, without daily drilling into drawing techniques and improving brush stability, relying solely on talent has no future.”

Mr. Gu was somewhat angry.

Honestly, he always felt that his grandson’s talent in spatial reproduction might not be beneficial for a painter.

Not mentioning Brother Hao and others who came knocking.

Painting itself also emphasizes style.

Whether willing to admit it or not, purely in the ability to record reality, painting has been beaten beyond recognition by modern photography.

Sometimes drawing too realistically is a disadvantage. It’s not as true as a photo, nor does it have a painter’s agility, completely converging weaknesses of two art forms.

Drawing a good photo to produce a medieval church painting of the Lord might be mistaken as a miracle and get sanctified, but in the modern art market, it struggles to survive, except for famous masters, the attention isn’t very high.

The top galleries and oil painting agents seek the next Manet, the next Cézanne, the next Picasso.

Not the second Picasso.

They will spend lavishly on promising young people but won’t spend a cent on clumsy imitators.

Though Gu Weijing’s talent for spatial grasp is outstanding, his basic painting skills are only considered good among his peers.

For young painters, only solid basic skills are the foundation for establishing one’s school in the future.

Not talking about such distant matters as creating one’s style.

At least we need to pass college entrance exams.

There is only one practice, and there is no room for opportunism.

”He should be talked to seriously, at his age, it’s time for steady practice of basic skills, learning lines, learning structure, learning colors, must not just rest on talent to waste time.”

Mr. Gu saw Gu Weijing finally put down the brush, and knocked heavily on the window.

...

Gu Weijing heard the knocking sound from behind, turned his head, and saw his grandfather’s slightly displeased face, and then noticed several missed calls on his phone next to him.

He opened the door.

”Been painting, colored pencil drawing?”

As Gu Tongxiang walked into the shop, he didn’t mention the bald visitor at all, and directly asked.

”Yes, the feeling is right...”

Just as Gu Weijing was about to say something, he was interrupted by his grandfather.

”That’s good, colored pencil drawing really tests a person’s brush handling proficiency. However, you should focus more on hard work on the basics of painting. It’s not enough to just draw accurately. Look at your lines...”

Gu Tongxiang picked up the drawing on the table.

In the eyes of old painters like him, it’s always easy to find flaws in a drawing, especially works from young learners like Gu Weijing who haven’t attended a proper art academy.

A drawing contains thousands of strokes, there’s always moments of oversight, maybe a segment is poorly handled, maybe the coloring is too thick, maybe the light and shadow aren’t clear.

Even for experienced old painters, a work created in such a short time can’t achieve perfection, without errors.

He lowered his head, glanced at the painting, preparing to pick out some imperfections.

Then a second glance.

Followed by a third glance.

Mr. Gu suddenly fell silent.