Chapter 31: The True Spirit of the Nation

When all the professors had come to an agreement, Zhong Huayan stepped forward and took a close look at the painting. Suddenly, everyone turned their attention to this unexpected woman. This was hardly a place where celebrities were usually seen.

Ignoring the gazes of others, she began to speak her mind freely.

“This painting is indeed reminiscent of antiquity—it is ‘learning from the ancients’ rather than simply possessing an ‘ancient flavor.’ It strongly resembles the ‘Loudong School’ of the Qing dynasty. While the technique is flawless, it is lifeless, lacking vitality, and reeks of self-righteousness.”

After hearing her words, several professors found her somewhat knowledgeable, but still not entirely convincing.

Professor Qin strolled over leisurely, as if to introduce her, “This young lady was brought here by Fu Yanyan. I just discussed art appreciation with her, and I’ve discovered she not only has insight into painting but also a remarkable understanding of literature.”

One elderly professor, speaking Chinese with a foreign accent, asked, “You say this painting is self-righteous? Then tell us, what kind of painting would not be self-righteous?”

This was not meant to be difficult—just a question. Had she not been introduced as someone associated with Fu Yanyan, the professors present might have immediately launched into a barrage of English and relentless questioning.

They did not believe someone in their twenties had the standing to challenge their authoritative interpretations.

Professor Qin was rather helpless—such was the stereotype held by many foreigners. Aside from himself, most of those present were foreign professors. Though their grasp of Chinese studies was not as refined, they were all renowned for their works in the art world and held positions at famous universities, with many accomplished students under their tutelage.

Their expertise was indeed widely respected.

At first, Professor Qin worried that the young woman might not be able to respond, given how exacting and serious these foreign professors tended to be.

Zhong Huayan, however, appeared calm and composed, neither arrogant nor servile. Her English was fluent and poetic.

“Just now, Professor Qin mentioned my literary background, so let me take this painting as an opportunity to discuss the relationship between painting and literature.

Perhaps some may think the two are unrelated, but all art is connected. Traditional Chinese painting was once called ‘literati painting’ because, back then, painting was not about technique but about sensitivity and the belief that meaning arises from the heart.

It is much like writing—the more one writes, the deeper one goes, the more one believes in what one creates. Both are rooted in feeling and sentiment.”

First and foremost, I do not favor Chinese paintings that slavishly copy the old masters. That is but an imitation of Chinese style, not the genuine essence. It has only structure, masterful technique, and visual pleasure, like a piece of ornate but hollow literature.

Professor Qin was once again delighted. He glanced at Fu Yanyan, who was seated on the nearby sofa while his assistant served tea. Though he appeared busy with paperwork, he was clearly listening attentively to her remarks. Professor Qin gave him an approving look, as if to say, “This woman is impressive, quite capable.” After all, she was the first in years to leave these foreign professors tongue-tied, even for a few seconds.

One of the local professors adjusted his glasses, his sharp gaze fixed on her, and addressed her in halting Chinese, “Well said, but as the saying goes, ‘a thousand readers yield a thousand Hamlets.’

That does not negate this painting’s value. While it is not truly Chinese in style, its visual communication is extraordinary. No matter what you think, I quite like it. Many of the oil paintings here are landscapes—often their symbolism is imperceptible, and meaning does not always correlate with the value of the work. What do you think?”

Indeed, in oil painting, atmosphere and unique technique often take precedence, and the meaning is left to the viewer’s interpretation.

Yet she shook her head. This might be true of other paintings, but not this one.

“In today’s rapidly developing society, the arts are a chaotic sea of information. Without the courage to innovate, it is hard to make an impact; and without impact, what value is left?

If we persist in being self-important, insisting that painting must be unique, with unmatched skill but no audience, striving only to emulate the ancient masters, we are moving steadily backward.

People are busy these days, and new artworks appear frequently. If a painting is so refined and esoteric that it becomes impossible to appreciate, then no matter how fine the technique or grand the vision, it cannot generate value.

What you consider good is merely your own opinion. On the artistic path, painters may bloom in myriad ways, but if we all tread the same road, it leads only to extinction.”

Several professors fell silent in thought. In the end, one praised her, “Excellent—you have a talent for critical thinking.”

Professor Qin clapped in admiration.

Fu Yanyan’s lips curled into a smile. Once he finished handling his contacts, he stood up, his tall and slender figure looming behind her.

The foreign professors, though saying little more, were clearly appreciative. For one so young, her insight was remarkable.

Still, they wondered about her actual skill in painting.

“How about this: tomorrow there will be a showcase for emerging artists here. We have a studio, so let’s see the young lady’s true abilities then,” Professor Qin suggested to ease the atmosphere.

With that, the gathering dispersed. No matter how much is said, in the end, ability must speak for itself.

As she left the room, a sudden pain struck her stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Fu Yanyan moved as if to put his arm around her shoulders, but withdrew at the last moment.

Professor Qin, not knowing him well, attributed his restraint to gentlemanly manners. In truth, given his power, he was not one to act with such caution out of mere concern.

“I’m fine, just need to visit the restroom,” she replied.

Zhong Huayan guessed she had caught a chill at the airport. She should have agreed to take Fu Yanyan’s private jet after all.

Her body, inherited from the original owner, was prone to cold; she could not withstand drafts or cold water. If she did, it would lead to stomach pain—sometimes within hours, sometimes after a day.

She pressed her abdomen for a while and felt better, though her face was still pale as she stood up.

Suddenly, she heard a few breaths—soft, feminine gasps.

Then a man’s voice followed...

Surely no one would be doing such things in the women’s restroom of a palace...

The palace restroom was elegantly decorated, even the murals and mirrors on the walls had a touch of history.

As evening approached, only prestigious, invited guests should remain in the building.

Still, she was not surprised—one should never assume that aristocrats and intellectuals are all paragons of virtue. Often their views are more eccentric, their actions more wanton, though in comparison to certain self-made entrepreneurs, their words and deeds are not quite as distasteful.

Just as she was about to leave, she caught sight of a woman with disheveled hair and a loosely draped dress stepping out, looking as though nothing had happened.

Yet for a popular star, her hair was unusually unkempt—it was obvious she had just been engaged in some sort of activity.