The Versatile Master Artist

Hanks stopped for a moment under the sign of Gu’s Calligraphy and Painting Shop.

The walls of the courtyard had already started to weather and become mottled. Looking inside through the glass doors and windows, at first glance, the decor still seemed somewhat decent.

But upon closer inspection, it turned out to be merely ordinary, akin to the level of a street-side café.

A small doorway, a small household, a small gallery, nothing less, nothing more.

”Hmm, it should be pretty much like this.”

As he pushed open the shop door, Hanks pouted.

He was curious to see the depths of the family capable of nurturing someone like Gu Weijing, so he stepped into the shop without rushing to explain his intentions to the owner. Instead, he wandered around like a regular customer.

The shop was not very large to begin with.

About two hundred square meters in size, it was divided into different style sections by two or three white exhibition walls.

Hanks walked and paused, most of the artworks fleeting by in a blur, only occasionally stopping to scrutinize one.

After spending about fifteen minutes,

he had browsed through most of the shop’s collection.

”Gu Tongxiang, he should be Gu Weijing’s grandfather and guardian.”

Hanks matched the information in his mind and paused before a detailed bird-and-flower painting. He took the price tag number plate next to the frame and, along with two others he had picked at random, headed to the counter by the entrance and handed them over.

It was neither delightful nor disappointing.

To say the painting skill here could nurture a young talent like Gu Weijing, Hanks was skeptical.

The elements that make an art master are often half talent and half environment.

He did not see an environment that matched his imagination.

So it indicated that,

Gu Weijing himself reaching the current level was probably ten out of ten thanks to his surprising remarkable talent.

”Actually, this old gentleman isn’t too bad either.”

In Hanks’ eyes, Gu Tongxiang’s painting skill was nowhere near that of a hidden genius fallen in humble circumstances. Yet, some works here had pretty good skill themselves, on par with the fusion painting ink level shown by Professor Yajima from his grandson Gu Weijing.

Individually taken out,

they might approximately achieve a moderate level of a professional painter, better than many grassroots gallery agents in some European small communities, perhaps having worked hard in his younger years.

Considering he came from a chaotic place like Myanmar, it’s notably commendable.

If he had had early opportunities to hone himself in France, Germany, or Dongxia, he might have written his own stories.

Unfortunately,

the turbulent art environment ended that possibility.

Poverty brings woes, same with a nation,

genius lost in the smoke, this is the tragedy of impoverished places. If not for Professor Yakai Ichiro’s recognition, maybe Gu Weijing would have repeated this cycle.

Thinking this way,

Hanks felt he was truly a great benefactor relieving suffering.

”The total is two million five hundred and sixty thousand Myanmar Kyat; can you pay in cash? If using US Dollars or Euro, there’s a 20% discount. We also accept RMB and yen.”

The middle-aged woman behind the cashier hadn’t seen such a generous customer in a long time, happily and swiftly entered the numbers into the computer.

”A Visa credit card will do, by the way, I’d like to ask, are there any works by Gu Weijing, Mr. Gu, for sale here?”

Hanks asked nonchalantly.

”Whose?”

The middle-aged clerk looked up, thinking she heard wrong.

”Gu Weijing.”

Hanks repeated deliberately, ”I saw an empty display frame over there with a label [Colored Pencil Drawing (11×15 inches)]. Was it bought by someone?”

It’s often said that children from poor families take responsibility early.

This young Gu Weijing has already exhibited such outstanding brushwork at such a young age, and his family also runs their own small gallery.

Hanks didn’t wish to learn that his much-anticipated colt, at such a young age, was already churning out molds, selling hundreds of cheap paintings.

If that’s the case,

he might have to consider buying them back and destroying them, otherwise, it could be a tricky issue once fame is achieved.

He still hoped this raw gem with such a good foundation could be nurtured into a high-end, classic route masterpiece painter!

A masterpiece painter is like a lofty beauty, productivity need not be high, but precision is key.

Some are like Deborah Walker, winners of Turner and international watercolor prizes, who paint only three or four pieces a year, each sold at high prices, with collectors clamoring for them, untouchably lofty.

In the industry, minors selling cheap paintings aren’t much scrutinized.

But if collectors found out the cold beauty they admire had once been like a printing machine, selling a heap of works,

there’d be some sense of dashed hopes, like a noble soul fallen into dust.

However...

”Five hundred dollars for a colored pencil drawing, including paper measuring several inches, isn’t a low price. Can they sell?”

He wondered aloud.

”Pfft.”

The middle-aged woman behind the cash register laughed out loud, her tone rather disdainful.

”The old man is biased, finding excuses to give his precious grandson pocket money. Five hundred dollars, humph, five hundred dollars, as if he warrants it, give, give, give, might as well hand over the whole family to this kid. His grandson is a big artist, while his granddaughter is like dirt by the roadside...”

The aunt in charge of watching the shop recalled the five hundred dollars the old man remitted to his grandson, causing her teeth to grind in irritation.

She frequently voiced to her husband these days that the Gu family has wronged her and her daughter.