Chapter 86: Abstract Style

Yet his presence, though faint and elusive, still drew the attention of those around him—likely because of his strikingly aloof aura and the unmistakable scent of incense wafting from his clothes.

Zhong Huayan sat in the front row. After glancing at her watch and noting that more than ten minutes had passed, she lifted her head just in time to spot a familiar figure. On the second floor, a man dressed in a white T-shirt, sneakers, and a baseball cap masking his face stood by the railing. Zhong Huayan couldn’t see him clearly, but something about his build and bearing seemed all too familiar.

The man, too, had noticed her gaze. He deliberately rested his hand on the railing, and the watch on his wrist caught the light with a subtle glint. Zhong Huayan might not have recognized his face, but that watch was unmistakable. Months ago, during a scuffle with Xu Yuan, the first time she encountered Xu Chu Yin, he wore a fake watch identical to this one.

The man even went so far as to point meaningfully at his watch.

A cold, abrupt laugh from Fu Yanyan brought Zhong Huayan’s attention sharply back. The cool and distant man beside her, though he hadn’t looked up, seemed to understand everything at a glance.

“Ah-Hua, you seem distracted. Did you perhaps see someone you know?”

She half-squinted, marveling at how Fu Yanyan always seemed to intuit the truth, no matter what happened. Sandwiched between them, she felt a vague, unspoken discomfort.

Her silence nearly made Fu Yanyan lose his temper, but as always, he restrained himself. His fingers idly played over the Buddhist beads at his wrist. Once indifferent and detached, he had grown increasingly greedy and possessive; now, he craved her every attention, her every glance.

In the frontmost rows sat judges from various regions. They examined each painting with meticulous care, conferring and recording their scores in notebooks. When confronted with particularly complex or distinctive works, they would seek the collective judgment of all contestants, determined not to overlook a single prodigy.

Clearly, since the second round began, the only work with truly unique qualities had been hers.

When thirty paintings were brought up together and the curtains unveiled one by one, the painting on the far left instantly seized the judges’ attention.

The piece was half-sketch, half-black paint, yet showed no trace of muddiness. Amid swirling black smoke, beneath a black gauze dress, a woman sat in profile on a chair. The scene was deceptively simple and calm, but what puzzled the eye was the woman herself: distorted, even abstract, her feet wholly separated from the floor, as if her body had been cut apart and reassembled at random. Strangely, the composition and lines were as precise as machine work—smooth as glass, without the slightest imperfection. Even the shading on the paper was rendered with flawless, granular smoothness.

Several judges were instantly troubled, lingering over the painting for more than ten minutes.

Then, from behind the contestants’ seats, a sharp-tongued girl spoke up, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“How could such a terrible painting make it through? It’s lifeless—like a robot, chaotic and senseless. If you’re going to sketch, just sketch—why add black wash? And to title it ‘Nothing’? It’s impossible to understand.”

After her biting words, whispers spread through the crowd.

“Is the artist here? Could you explain this?”

“I can’t tell what style this is supposed to be.”

“Anyone who’s gotten this far must have some skill. There must be meaning behind it.”

Seeing the mounting speculation, Zhong Huayan stepped onto the stage, unhurried yet resolute.

“There are many forms of art,” she began, her voice clear and unwavering. “Today, this painting is a non-objective experience—a pure joy born from sensation itself. I’ve stripped away all unnecessary steps, removed everything that appeals merely to the eye, focusing only on pure feeling.

This liberation from objectivity aligns with the world’s mysterious magnetic fields. Like the moon reflected in the water at night, shattered into fragments, yet within the surface’s tranquility, transcending the mundane. It is more captivating than the moon hanging in the sky. Perhaps what we see with our eyes cannot reveal true beauty. True art must come from within, not from mere sight.

True art should embrace all things, all the distortions of line and form—not be limited to a single standard or outline. True art is nothingness. The brush in our hands, the paper beneath it, are art in themselves.

When we return to purity, we become like the woman in the painting—glancing in all directions, fragmented, lost in contemplation and memory—these are abstract lines. Yet the world also possesses its own order, as precise as these immaculate lines. This is the highest art: born from our hearts, from every breath of this earth, from every sheet of paper.”

Her words, delivered with poise and conviction, perfectly embodied the painting’s black beauty, rigor, extremity, and mystery.

As she finished, the hall erupted in applause. The judges began to confer.

“At first, we didn’t consider this perspective, but if her method aims for pure sensation and minimalist abstraction, there are indeed precedents among the masters.”

“Indeed, seen from that angle, the painting shows rare talent. Few can blend abstraction and minimalism so seamlessly.”

“I lean toward believing she’s highly skilled and gifted. Look how delicately she handles the canvas, with such an effortless air. Our hesitation stemmed from the painting’s elusive meaning, which left us torn between two works.”

“I’ve made my decision. Her explanation moved me. As a Chinese, I can say with certainty that this work is truly rare. The idea behind it stands firm within the painting.”

The hall fell silent for almost ten minutes before the renowned art professor from Aomeng spoke.

“‘Nothing’ by Li Yanyan—advances to the next round!”

The announcement sent a wave of surprise through the audience, though it somehow felt inevitable. Most found themselves drawn to the woman’s unique allure; among so many seemingly ordinary artists, she stood out with her extraordinary beauty. Her explanation had caught many an eye.

Fu Yanyan’s lips curled with pride. If not for the risk of attracting a crowd, he would have removed his mask already. Years of caution and secret scheming had taught him to hide what he cherished, lest desperate souls plot a kidnapping—no rarity in Aomeng’s upper circles.

“President Fu, that woman who caused a stir from the back was the same one who tried to plagiarize by planting a micro-camera yesterday,” whispered his assistant after some thought.

“No wonder she was so contrary. We’ve revoked her qualification—she must’ve come just to cause trouble. She probably doesn’t know it was your decision, or her parents would’ve dragged her home in disgrace. Their business has long relied on our equity investment company’s support.”