Chapter 30: Appreciating Autumn’s Painting

Zhong Huayan's flight to Italy was scheduled for the afternoon.

Fu Yanyan had specially booked her a first-class seat.

Today, she wore a red multicolored qipao, adorned with agate on her wrist. Her hair was elegantly coiffed, accentuating her delicate features; her face was gentle and flawless. When viewed in profile as she read and sipped her tea, she seemed the very picture of tranquil beauty.

“You mentioned being interested in Bamboo Leaf Green before, so I asked someone to fetch the finest from Mount Emei for you,” he said.

She turned a page, tasting her tea. “Emei Snow Bud is also delightful—it leaves a wonderful lingering sweetness.”

Fu Yanyan wore a black shirt today, embroidered with slender red koi in Cantonese style. Perhaps it was intentional, but their outfits seemed to echo one another, creating a striking harmony.

After dinner, they returned to their respective rooms, bathed, and slept through the night.

By the next day, their plane had landed in Italy.

As they disembarked, they drew numerous glances—not only for their Eastern features but also for their extraordinary bearing.

He was elegant and decisive.

She was cool and noble.

The envy of passersby.

This art exhibition had gathered promising talents, professors, and leading figures from many countries—a veritable feast for the arts.

The venue was the Cassada Palace, its grand columns layered in Collins style, the snowy façade towering in splendor.

Approaching the palace at dusk, they were noticed by several lingering foreign media representatives, who immediately recognized Fu Yanyan and turned their cameras toward him.

Compared to the celebrities who had just entered, this pair possessed an even more captivating aura.

The palace ceiling was adorned in a typically Western style: cherubic infants cradled in yellow marble, flanked by seraphim with unfurled wings.

Given the late hour, only the most distinguished guests remained for the night.

“Mr. Fu, long time no see, and this is…?”

Professor Qin hailed them from afar. A Chinese expatriate, he had taught art for years at a renowned Italian university.

Fu Yanyan had met him years ago, when his company first expanded overseas, introduced by an investor.

The professor regarded the woman at Fu’s side with surprise.

First, she was so young—unlike the locals, her youthful Eastern features set her apart. Yet her manner was mature, her eyes calm and contemplative.

Secondly, Fu Yanyan, who spent most of his time in China, had only ever come abroad for business. Despite his popularity among women of all nations, he had never brought a companion.

“This is…” The professor hesitated, wary that a careless word might displease her.

“Hello, Professor. I am also passionate about art, though my studies have prevented me from pursuing it deeply. Mr. Fu happened to have two tickets and, hearing of my interest, suggested we come for a change of pace.”

Professor Qin’s gaze lingered on her. Her smile was poised, her words flawless, and even her demeanor carried a subtle charm.

“How did you know who I was?” he asked.

She gestured delicately at the pen clipped to his shirt. “I once had a teacher who was also a professor—he had the same habit.”

The professor laughed, delighted. “Such keen observation! You must have come for more than just viewing paintings tonight.”

“I’m here to learn. The world is vast—I simply wish to see if there are any truly outstanding works.”

“Come, then. I’ve just seen two remarkable paintings. They’re quite similar, yet the experts are unanimous in their praise.”

They stopped before the two works.

Both depicted autumn, rendered in shades of white and yellow, with black paint capturing wild grass swaying in the wind and a country road.

At first glance, they appeared nearly identical.

The professor, obliging Fu, had brought her to see the renowned pieces. After all, the university’s future funding depended on the Fu Group’s generosity.

“These were painted by two artists who studied under the same master. It’s said that when they graduated, they were both tasked with the theme of ‘autumn’ and left these as their parting works.”

Zhong Huayan stepped closer and observed intently before speaking in measured tones. “Though these paintings seem alike, they are in fact entirely different.”

The professor was mildly surprised, but soon composed himself.

He assumed she was privileged and untempered by life, and so would speak freely. He was prepared to praise whatever she said.

Yet as she continued, his polite smile slowly froze.

“Though both depict autumn—perhaps even the same scene—the first expresses the stillness of autumn. The road is smoother, the trees lean gently, brushed by a casual breeze.

The interlacing black shadows of the trees evoke the struggles of life, tangled frustrations that linger unresolved. Yet the wind arrives just in time, causing the branches to hang, poised between falling and not.

It seems to say that, in this chaotic world, in this quiet field, no matter how I cry or wander, I have understood that life lies in tranquility and acceptance.

Only by making peace with oneself can the heart find true serenity.”

Her voice, trained by years of Kunqu opera, rose and fell with poetic cadence, investing her words with feeling.

The pitch and rhythm were so fitting that the professor was drawn in, no longer thinking of anything but listening to her.

“As for the second painting, it speaks of the anguish of autumn.

Here, the branches are more scattered, repeatedly crossing, and the sweeping yellow gives the impression of bursting forth. The handling of the paint reflects the artist’s emotional state—there is no logic, only a dramatic surge of feeling.

The colors are bolder, seeping from subtlety to overwhelming restlessness. The yellow is aggressive, drowning the canvas, leaving only the wild, tangled branches.

This is the cry of life—flowers blooming and withering in lonely autumn, fallen leaves returning to their roots, the shout of existence.

It is the season of life’s sorrow, but also a testament to its uninhibited expression.”

When her words fell silent, the professor stared for several seconds before raising his thumb in praise.

“Impressive. I think you’re absolutely right. Art should not be limited to technique—interpreting it through atmosphere and intent is a fascinating approach.”

Fu Yanyan felt a surge of pride he had never known; she had always made him aware of life’s greater possibilities.

She could be a company president or an artist.

Whenever people conversed with him, the discussion always turned to her in the end.

It was simply because his beloved Huayan was so eloquent and learned.

Perhaps sensing her potential, Professor Qin led them to a more secluded room.

Inside were several prominent professors, speaking in various tongues as they debated a painting on the table.

Their discussion was sharp yet professional.

“I think the color in this painting is poorly handled! The technique is excellent, but I see a deliberate archaism, which is rare abroad.”

“Even so, it’s a bit too retro…”

“Retro isn’t the point—the composition and treatment of light are quite good. It’s still valuable. I’d like to know which of our students could achieve this level of skill.”