Chapter 7

Before this afternoon, 孟頔 wasn't the first to say Chen Xian "never stops."
Her mom had said: "弦弦, why are you still doing problems? Go to sleep."
Her roommate had said: "Help, you're going to the library again? Take a day off."
On the way to the gallery, Chen Xian told 孟頔 about the past—like her short-lived painting phase—trying to prove she wasn't that "competitive," that she'd had time for hobbies too.
"During grad school I signed up for an online watercolor class. I think I learned something, but I never really used it. Maybe it was just for stress relief."
孟頔 seemed interested: "What kind of watercolor class?"
Chen Xian opened the app and found the course: "Simple pen and wash."
She showed him her homework: "This is what I did."
"Really good," 孟頔's praise sounded genuine: "How long did you study?"
Chen Xian: "Two months total. Two classes a week."
孟頔: "And you turned in every assignment."
Chen Xian smiled: "That's worth praising?"
孟頔: "Finishing things on time is impressive to me."
Chen Xian turned off her phone: "Have you ever taught a class?"
孟頔 shook his head: "No. I'm not cut out to teach, and I'm not the planning type."
Chen Xian: "But you still put on a solo show."
孟頔: "Because there's a curator. I just provide the work."
Chen Xian raised her brows: "Don't you need to go to the opening? Like a ribbon-cutting ceremony?"
孟頔: "I turned it down."
Chen Xian paused, then said: "I'm curious—what's an unplanned life like? Doesn't it feel insecure?"
孟頔: "No."
Chen Xian guessed straight out: "Your family's pretty well-off, right?"
孟頔 nodded.
"I knew it," Chen Xian turned to the window: "My family's okay too. Both parents work, they don't pressure me. But somehow, the less they ask, the more I demand of myself."
A track with no finish line. You just keep running. Stopping becomes a mistake; others will pass you. Most people here live like that—swept along by the tide. Some reach the other side; some crash on the rocks; some drown.
孟頔 was different. He had his own emerald island.
Chen Xian visited his island—a private gallery that rented out long-term. The all-white design was like a minimalist shrine, and his work was the treasure worshiped inside.
The sign at the entrance said 「浪。花。」 The background was still that flower painting from last night.
After getting tickets and the postcard, Chen Xian looked at the name: "Is 浪 you?"
waves—his pen name, also his WeChat name.
waves—ocean waves, surges, things that emerge.
孟頔: "Yeah."
Chen Xian flipped the postcard: "Why not use your real name? Your real name's nice too."
孟頔: "I've never used my real name. My Instagram is the same."
He added: "I have no name in China."
Chen Xian was speechless, shocked by his modesty—or self-deprecation: "What do you mean, no name in China?"
孟頔's tone was flat: "I only use Instagram. Most people who buy my work are foreign. The picture books are all English editions for overseas markets. My style doesn't fit here."
Chen Xian stood there: "But you're having a show here."
孟頔 looked around: "You see—hardly anyone."
Hardly anyone.
The white corridor was long and empty. They had the place almost to themselves.
Chen Xian didn't know what to say. 孟頔 was clearly talented, but not in the way the general public understood "talented." His skill and achievements weren't capital—at least not the kind you talk about—because outsiders didn't get it and didn't want to. The pursuit of art on a spiritual level was a higher pursuit. To comfort him would be unnecessary; he didn't need it. Even as an isolated island, he was the rightful lord of that island.
They passed a "moving" wall—a large projection of 孟頔's signature flower painting. The flowers swayed gently, as if in a light breeze.
孟頔's brushwork was bold and loose, but his colors were soft and clear. Different blocks of color sat together without clashing, pleasing to the eye. He'd created a watercolor version of "Monet's water lilies."
"Look, your painting's moving." Chen Xian stopped in front of it, watching the flowers that seemed to come alive.
孟頔 stopped too: "Yeah. I animated them."
Chen Xian: "You did it?"
孟頔 seemed unsure what she was surprised about: "The curator suggested it. Said we needed something eye-catching for people to check in and take photos at the opening."
Chen Xian hesitated.
孟頔 noticed: "Want a photo? I can help."
Chen Xian didn't hold back: "First time at a gallery for this country bumpkin." She looked back: "Especially since your work's so beautiful."
孟頔 took her phone right away and stood a few steps away.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Can you go a bit further?" Chen Xian looked at the lens and pointed behind her: "I want to get the whole painting if possible."
孟頔 moved back and adjusted the angle.
He nodded: ready.
After she got the photo, Chen Xian thanked him. 孟頔 said no problem.
Chen Xian laughed at herself: "We're so polite and courteous."
孟頔 agreed.
Chen Xian: "I take back the thanks. Friends should do this for each other."
孟頔's smile deepened.
Past the animated wall, through a tall white arched doorway, the gallery opened up. 孟頔's actual paintings were here.
"There are people," Chen Xian said.
Yes, there were people—not many. A couple, and two young women.
They took photos or whispered. The whole space was quiet and ethereal. Only 孟頔's paintings were alive, in full bloom.
The theme was "flowers," and he'd painted many. Chen Xian had seen masters' flowers before—Van Gogh's famous irises and sunflowers, intense colors, bold strokes. But 孟頔's flowers were cool and light, gauzy, with incredible light and shadow, like nebulas or lunar halos.
Distant, light, delicate. And, of course, comfortable. 孟頔 was right—he was himself. His paintings were part of him, not a halo or an add-on.
The whole visit didn't take long. In under two hours they'd made a full round. Chen Xian took plenty of photos and regretted not bringing a DSLR. The phone camera couldn't capture 孟頔's colors.
There was a small incident partway through.
The curator, making rounds, recognized 孟頔. He came over to confirm, then scolded: "You sneaked in, didn't you."
孟頔 smiled slightly.
The man joked: "I asked you to come and you said you couldn't be bothered. But bringing a girl gives you all the motivation."
Chen Xian could only smile along.
His friend was a big social butterfly and kept teasing, asking if she wanted to buy one.
孟頔, good-natured, stopped him.
Chen Xian said: "Sure."
The friend shrugged, annoyingly: "Too bad they all sold out on opening day."
Chen Xian smiled wryly: "You're just here to show off, aren't you."
The friend was surprised by her directness—and then someone even more direct showed up: "Nah, I'm here to help 孟頔 out."
They both went quiet. There was more to what he'd said.
孟頔 politely declined his friend's dinner invite and "banished" him—from his and Chen Xian's space.
They took the metro back instead of a cab. The car wasn't crowded; they both had seats, side by side.
Chen Xian was still thinking about what the man had said: "Where do you usually sell your work?"
孟頔: "Before or this time?"
Chen Xian: "There's a before and this time?"
孟頔: "Previous shows were abroad, all in-person sales. This time the partner has a mini-program. Search the gallery name."
Chen Xian found it quickly.
The gallery's interface was high-end. The splash screen was 孟頔's exhibition notice. His paintings were displayed like products. The "add to cart" buttons were all grayed out—sold out.
She checked the prices: eight thousand to twenty thousand.
Chen Xian closed it.
Oh well. She had photos. She scrolled through the pictures on her phone, admiring a mortal's spoils.
Her thumb stopped on the photo 孟頔 had taken of her.
People who could paint seemed to have an eye for beauty. Besides the perfect composition, it was the first time she'd seen herself look this good in an unfiltered photo.
But when she looked at the whole picture, her view changed. She'd become a burden, a shadow, a flaw—because her body blocked part of it, the image was no longer complete.
She held the phone out to 孟頔 and pointed at the flower shadows on her: "I think I ruined your garden."
孟頔 looked down and studied it seriously: "No. The flowers bloomed on you."