Chapter 28. Blue Part 2

Lu Zhengming was in a light mood and found a few more paints in the box. In his hand was the usual Prussian blue, a dark shade reminiscent of the deep sea. He needed a bit of bright color to dilute its heaviness, along with some complementary colors to enrich the layers.

Classical techniques require thin, transparent layers of paint, which demand high-quality pigments. Premium paints contain less filler and a higher concentration of pigment. Just a small amount can spread into long, thin brushstrokes. Sometimes, when Lu Zhengming needed thick textures, using such paints felt wasteful. He often made his own pigments from industrial powders, turning his studio into a miniature chemical lab.

This time, he allowed himself a rare indulgence. He picked a new flat brush to lay down the base layer. The diluted paint spread smoothly, covering the canvas with a thin, watercolor-like clarity. He mixed a touch of green into the blue, creating a hue reminiscent of the crystal-clear waters in tropical island photos, where white sandy beaches enhanced the vividness of the sea.

Lu Zhengming smoked a cigarette, feeling at ease. It was as if he could sense the moist sea breeze. He even felt a sudden urge to drink a cocktail, something he would normally avoid, though, of course, there was none at home. Instead, he pulled a beer from the fridge.

He had always despised those who used drugs for so-called inspiration, believing that drugs offered nothing more than fleeting, artificial experiences. Once the effect wore off, their talent would extinguish like a matchstick flame. Drinking was different. In a slightly tipsy state, the rigid shell of consciousness melted away, allowing the subconscious to flow freely. Forgotten or repressed thoughts could surface. If he captured them in his painting, it would be like photographing the landscapes of his own mind, a snapshot he could revisit when sober.

Lu Zhengming painted with ease. The headache that had plagued him was completely gone. His body felt as though it were floating on clouds.

He finished another bottle of beer and naturally got up to grab another, but there was no more left in the fridge. He felt a bit disappointed, though not enough to ruin his mood. Staggering slightly, he returned to his workspace, stopping a few meters from the easel to admire his recent work, but the painting seemed to have changed.

The bright tones had vanished, leaving only a dark, blue-black vortex on the canvas, like a cave deep beneath the ocean. Lu Zhengming’s tipsiness evaporated in an instant, as though he’d been frozen in place.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the vortex because it was spinning, as if trying to pull him toward its dark center. His heart pounded wildly. His ears rang, and he felt lightheaded. Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee, trying to ease the dizziness. The roaring in his ears, like the sound of an airplane taking off and landing, gradually subsided, only to be replaced by a chilling voice that made his entire body go cold:

“Mr. Lu.”

A young woman in a black robe stood beside the canvas, deepening the vortex with each stroke of her brush. He could almost hear the sound of water being stirred.

“Yan Yan?!” Lu Zhengming’s head started throbbing again.

Yan Yan set down the brush and dipped her fingers into the swirling water. Murky waves seeped through her fingers, and Lu Zhengming caught the faint, briny smell of the sea.

“I’m sorry, Yan Yan. I’m so sorry. I regret it so much…”

Lu Zhengming struggled to stand but couldn’t manage it. He kept apologizing, but Yan Yan seemed indifferent. Her face remained turned toward the vortex.

“Mr. Lu, do you think you’re suited to be an artist?”

Lu Zhengming’s consciousness was stubbornly clear, at a time when he desperately wished it weren’t. He wanted to faint, to escape this nightmarish scene, but Yan Yan wasn’t about to let him go.

She turned toward him, her movements unnaturally rigid, like something not entirely human. Her motions were slightly distorted, trembling, as though part of a low-frame-rate stop-motion animation. To his shock, Lu Zhengming realized that her face was also distorted, as if it had been painted, and the painting style was all too familiar.

It resembled the portrait hanging in Yin Yan’s home.

She walked up to him. “Do you think you’re suited to be an artist?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Lu Zhengming gritted his teeth, forcing himself to endure. “I can still create something worthwhile.”

“Sure, you’ve painted a lot.” Yan Yan paused for a moment, scanning the room full of artworks. “But why do you paint?”

Lu Zhengming struggled for a bit longer, but when he realized he couldn’t maintain any semblance of composure, he gave up and sat down on the floor. “There are many things I can’t express with words. Painting is a language. It can convey things I don’t know how to say.”

Yan Yan sat down as well, hugging her knees as she watched him. “What is it you want to express?”

Lu Zhengming was momentarily taken aback. “Every painting expresses something different. How am I supposed to explain that?”

“For example, your Light series. I never understood what you were trying to say with those.”

She turned her head toward the easel, where the canvas had somehow transformed into one of Lu Zhengming’s most famous works, Light No. 26. The painting was suffused with a warm, vibrant yellow, reminiscent of Van Gogh’s brilliance, as though capturing the instant when joy blossoms and bursts into full bloom.

“Mr. Lu, can you tell me what this one means?”

Lu Zhengming felt his ears heat up as he hesitated, debating whether to come completely clean. The inspiration for this painting came from a fleeting affair. Specifically, from an image that flashed in his mind at the climax of the encounter. Of course, by now, he’d long forgotten what that person even looked like.

“This one…,” he rubbed his ear awkwardly, deciding to be honest, “is about… sex. You know, that moment. You get what I mean, right?”

Yan Yan stared at the painting with a blank expression, as though she understood, yet didn’t.

“I’ve never made love to anyone, so I don’t know what that feels like,” she said calmly.

Lu Zhengming was struck by how bizarre the situation had become. Here he was, discussing something like this with a “ghost,” and actually feeling embarrassed about it. Yan Yan turned her face back toward him, and the scene became even more surreal. The painted face she wore looked so lifelike, and her expression so real, that Lu Zhengming found himself unconsciously taking the conversation more seriously.

“To me,” she said, “this just looks like a high-key, highly saturated abstract painting. It has an inexplicable sense of excitement. According to color psychology, yellow symbolizes optimism, positivity, and cheerfulness. In different cultural contexts, it can also represent things like nobility or decadence, or, in traditional Chinese culture, it belongs to the Earth element in the Five Elements theory…”

“No, no, Yan Yan, that’s way too mechanical,” Lu Zhengming interrupted, his head spinning. “Listen to me…”

Yan Yan stared at him intently. “But why is yellow associated with an orgasm?”

“I don’t know,” Lu Zhengming said, pinching his forehead in frustration. “I can’t explain it.”

Yan Yan’s expression turned sorrowful. Slowly, she rose to her feet, as thin and fragile as a sheet of paper, her body occasionally flickering with abrupt, disjointed brushstrokes.

“If I had lived long enough, experienced love and desire, maybe I would understand why an orgasm is yellow.”

Lu Zhengming clutched his head in agony. The splitting headache felt like it would tear him apart.

“I’m sorry, Yan Yan. I’m so sorry…”

Yan Yan drifted back toward the canvas. “It’s beautiful. It’s a stunning painting. People love it. They shower it with praise, write endless words to admire it, and are willing to spend a fortune to own it. Critics write lengthy essays analyzing it, from its materials, techniques, and composition to its supposed ‘cultural’ and ‘ideological’ significance. But do they really understand you? I’ve never experienced that feeling. Do those who have experienced it truly understand? Do they genuinely feel the same joy you’re trying to express?”

“It’s not like that…”

“You’re expressing yourself to an audience that might exist but, in reality, doesn’t. You’ll never truly be understood. And yet, in your quest for understanding, you still try so hard to translate your emotions into words. But in the process, you lose so much information, things that words can’t capture. Because there will never be a perfect correspondence between images and language. What you convey through images will never be fully understood, and what can be understood through language will never truly express what you mean.”

“That’s not…”

“Mr. Yin said, ‘Painting is my scream, the only thing keeping me alive.’ But if no one can hear it, then what is left to keep me alive?”

Yan Yan’s form began to dissolve, like a finished painting rewinding through time. The strokes gradually unraveled, the delicate details fading into indistinct patches of color. The upper layers of pigment peeled away, leaving only a blurred underlayer, then regressed further into a rough sketch. Her voice twisted, distorted, splitting apart into layers, merging into another familiar voice:

“I don’t believe humans can ever truly understand one another.”

She vanished into thin air before Lu Zhengming’s eyes, not even a single lingering line remaining.

The ever-changing canvas stilled, leaving behind a deep, dark blue vortex, silent and bottomless.

Lu Zhengming collapsed to his knees and started vomiting uncontrollably. He threw up until there was nothing left, until his throat was raw and burning with an acidic bitterness, yet his stomach continued to convulse painfully. Staggering to his feet, he fumbled with trembling hands for his phone, then unlocked the door.

Before losing consciousness, Lu Zhengming remembered dialing 120. But when he woke up, he wasn’t in a hospital. His body was still in disarray, reeking of the sour stench from earlier, yet he was wrapped in a clean coat and held in someone’s arms.

“Yin Yan…”

He closed his eyes again and drifted back into peaceful sleep.