The Versatile Master Artist

Chapter 36: Chapter 24: Calm Fury

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

Old Yang ran as if he were a middle-aged cowboy who had just woken from a nap to find his cattle missing and hurriedly rushed back, or like a content middle-aged cow sneaking away while the cowboy was napping, clip-clopping all the way back.

He found the old master in the small square ahead, lowered his head, and whispered in Cao Xuan’s ear about what he had just seen.

He was panting.

Anxiety does not disappear with panting; it only spreads.

”Is that all?”

The old master exhaled lightly along with the assistant, sounding peaceful, seemingly unaffected by the news. But the attentive Old Yang noticed the old master’s thin fingers tightening on the cane’s tip, then slowly, gradually releasing.

Old Yang prided himself as a cultured person.

This scene.

Reminded him of Romance of the Three Kingdoms when the traitorous Wei Yan unintentionally extinguished the Seven-Star Lamp, and the little brother Jiang Wei drew his treasure sword with a swish. The old prime minister threw his long sword aside and sighed: ”Alas, life and death are predetermined and can’t be altered!”

The assistant’s eyes darted around.

He didn’t find a sword to draw, so he grabbed the old man’s shoulder, supporting the little old man’s torso with his body, afraid the seemingly calm old man would collapse from inner anger and anxiety.

”Master, Master, it’s happened already, worrying won’t help, take care of your health.”

”What happened? What’s wrong with Elder Cao.”

”Is it a sudden discomfort? Everything was fine just a moment ago.”

All the artists and workers who followed Elder Cao in worshiping Buddha noticed something was amiss.

With Old Yang running over to whisper in Elder Cao’s ear, Elder Cao’s reaction was noticeably off.

Not to mention anything else, just Elder Cao’s age made him the center of everyone’s concern.

People immediately started discussing.

”I don’t know, it seemed related to mural number seventeen, and I vaguely heard someone destroyed it.”

Someone close when Old Yang spoke heard a bit of the situation.

”The number seventeen mural, isn’t it connected to the scroll painting from the Konbaung Dynasty’s Tusi period? Elder Cao reportedly spent a lot of effort wanting to complete it.” An artist aware of the importance of this mural.

”What happened to that mural? Yangon officials closed the area’s tourist passage; only project workers can get close, who would dare destroy it?”

No.17 mural?

Tanaka Masakazu’s ears perked up.

He knew the swapped numbered plaque from the rare murals in the special task box was number seventeen.

Unexpectedly, he hit the jackpot; that mural was Elder Cao’s work.

Moreover, it seemed.

Elder Cao valued that mural highly.

Tanaka Masakazu was secretly pleased, yet feigned confusion and joined the discussions with those nearby: ”How could this happen?”

”Was there a report? Local staff?”

His sly eyes fixed on Elder Cao, anticipating the thunderous outburst.

Elder Cao appeared calm.

But his hand holding the cane was trembling.

Mural number seventeen was one of the three most important murals for him in this project. The other two involved restoring large murals, where he only offered guidance; only this one carried his most heartfelt effort.

This might be the project’s mural demanding the most painting skill. Since deciding to take on this project, examining mural seventeen had commenced.

In his studio, he prepared numerous drafts, consulted countless references.

He held several remote video meetings with painters experienced in mural restoration in places like Dunhuang, Cambodia, Paris, and Istanbul, all to ensure that Buddha Worship and Protection Painting was restored to perfection.

That’s why the first task after the project started was completing the outline for this painting’s missing section.

But now, due to a mere single careless afternoon, everything was ruined.

Fate makes fools of us.

Fate makes fools of us.

”This is destiny.”

This thought flashed in Elder Cao’s mind.

Seeing the reddish flush on Elder Cao’s face, worried he might have a health issue, Old Yang hurriedly ordered someone to fetch a chair and took out quick-relief heart pills and warm water from his pocket.

Elder Cao drank some water, finally recovering slightly.

”Let’s go, take me to see the mural.”

Cao Xuan’s chest heaved violently as he slightly closed his eyes, finally exhaling slowly. He spoke to his assistant.

Old Yang was surprised Elder Cao neither lost his temper publicly nor called for the police.

He knew how serious the old man was about painting and valued art.

Mr. Cao Xuan couldn’t have changed for someone like Gu Weijing.

Not to mention Gu Weijing, even Elder Cao’s disciples in their forties and fifties have been hit by his palette for not being conscientious while drawing.

”Alright, let’s first go see the mural... sigh.” The old man sighed deeply once more.

”As for Gu Weijing.”

The little old man propped himself upright with his cane, his wrinkles intersecting, suddenly appearing much older.

”No matter if it’s that child’s mistake, even if he wanted to stand out... forget it, let’s see the situation first. This mural was my responsibility, failing to handle it right, the blame is mine,”

Elder Cao instructed Old Yang once more in his ear.

”Let’s leave it at that.”

Old Yang was silent.

He hadn’t expected the first words from Elder Cao to be this.

To be blunt, unauthorized tampering with a master’s work, even at ordinary studios, could be reported for legal action.

How much is Elder Cao’s work, infused with his heart and soul, worth? It’s hard to measure with mere money anymore.

Did Elder Cao hate Gu Weijing?

Of course, he did. Regardless of the reason, he now doesn’t want to see this young man.

If he were four or five decades younger and a bit more hot-tempered, he might have swung his cane and broken the other’s legs.

But the old master has aged.

The elderly master, more considerate of posterity.

Mr. Cao Xuan knows his casual harsh words now could ruin the child’s entire career.

After all, he still loves talent.

From the previous pen sketch, it’s clear, regardless, that Gu Weijing is a young man willing to strive in art. Since the mural is irreparable, he doesn’t want to overshadow the future of a diligent child.

At least.

Let’s see the situation first.

”Let’s leave it at that.”

Cao looked sternly at Old Yang.

Old Yang pursed his lips.

Admiring the master’s generosity, he was also somewhat amazed at Gu’s good fortune.

From Old Yang’s perspective, minimizing the incident’s impact was ideal, sparing himself from collateral damage.

However, guess this guy won’t be visiting Lin Tao’s studio anymore.

Such a good youth, newly caught the attention of a master, yet personally stifled his chance, truly sigh-worthy.

The Buddha worship activity was ending, but the incident abruptly ended it.

The crowd followed Elder Cao quickly back toward mural number seventeen.

Many along the way were unsure of what happened, but the atmosphere grew slightly oppressive.

Tanaka Masakazu didn’t witness the expected outburst, feeling a bit disappointed, though he figured it was just the calm before the storm.

His small steps shuffled like a timid, shrinking mouse, keeping behind the main group.

Elder Cao, leaning on his cane, summoned experts familiar with mural restoration, with known project painters like Lin Tao gathering voluntarily.

The old man could already envision how the mural had been smeared.

If the applied color is too light, perhaps it could be remedied.

But the common mistake amateurs make is applying thick layers, smearing it into a mess.

The world’s best-selling cultural magazine, New Yorker, once reported a case where a French student team made such an error while restoring an eight-hundred-year-old Statue of the Virgin.

The entire sculpture was painted chaotically with garish colors.

The magazine used venomous rhetoric to call the restoration, ”Turning the Holy Mother into a monkey.”

Cao Xuan already visualized the scattered, colorful chaos smeared on the mural.

The old master’s face was flushed red, yet his fingertips gripping the cane were pale and bloodless.