The Versatile Master Artist

The same fear of losing after gaining.

The same inferiority and fear.

Miao Angwen fears losing the prosperous life that Brother Hao has bestowed upon him.

Gu Weijing fears losing the dream of becoming a great painter.

Afraid that what the system has granted him would end up being nothing but a mirage.

At most, he could only become a craftsman with superior techniques.

Because what he possesses are merely external conditions, lacking that crucial… that which only true geniuses like Lady Tang Ning possess…

The artist’s enlightened heart.

“Sheep brush applies titanium white, the tip mixes rouge, petals are dotted with a side stroke, flowers are outlined with two strokes…”

Gu Weijing attempted to focus all his attention on the Wisteria painting technique mantra he recited in his mind, striving to use concentration to suppress the discord and fear in his head.

He even directly opened the system panel.

While painting, he stared at the Chinese Painting Techniques section on the panel.

Gu Weijing no longer cared about how many clusters of wisteria he had to paint before the experience points on the progress bar would move a bit.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Now, only the experience points moving upward could make him feel a brief moment of peace and solidity.

If covering the remaining gap of a hundred experience points required painting a thousand clusters of wisteria, then he would be willing to paint them.

At least it proved.

That a person without aura, through sheer stubborn effort, still had hope of breaking through a painting bottleneck.

In this cruel industry of art where talent dictates success, the concept of diligence compensating for clumsiness was the very solace Gu Weijing needed most now.

But unfortunately.

The state of painting is not like running a fitness test; mere persistent practice isn’t guaranteed to improve it.

It’s like sand being held in one’s palm, the more deliberate the grip, the quicker and more will slip through.

“Sheep brush applies titanium white, the tip mixes rouge, side…”

“Gu Weijing, unfortunately, you didn’t make it to the shortlist of the Singapore Biennale pre-selection. Thank you for your support and trust in the project committee.”

“Sheep brush applies titanium white, the tip mixes rouge…”

“Sigh, with this level, you wish to be my last disciple? Not a hint of aura. What’s the use of me accepting a painting photocopier?”

“Sheep brush…”

“Gu Weijing, didn’t we agree to rise to great heights together, you being my Monet? Where is your painter’s heart? I simply cannot see it.”

As he recited the painting mantra, the noise in his mind showed no sign of dying down, instead growing even larger.

Gu Weijing initially only silently recited the mantra in his heart, treating the Wisteria painting technique like a Zen “calming incantation,” hoping to calm himself down.

After a short while.

He was almost shouting.

But as his voice turned hysterical, the volume of the little man inside his mind became equally deafening.

It was no longer just the voices of Tang Ning and himself.

The rejection letter from the Singapore committee, Elder Cao’s disappointed gaze, Koizumi Katsuko’s questioning look—various phantoms appeared and disappeared in quick succession, ultimately forming a massive symphonic chorus echoing in Gu Weijing’s mind.

It was a movement concerning an inescapable tragedy.

The Buddhist scripture said.

When demon thoughts linger, all sufferings arise as if falling into a hell of fire.

Ironically, just a few days ago, Gu Weijing had painted a draft about a cat to help Jean Arnou’s son with psychological issues.

In an instant.

He himself was submerged by a tide of negative emotions.

Tony could escape into his secluded mind.

But Gu Weijing’s turmoil lay precisely in his mind.

So he found no refuge anywhere on earth.

If Dr. Jin Anqing had witnessed this scene, the psychologist would definitely realize Gu Weijing was experiencing an exceptionally classic textbook-like depressive episode.

It is also the most typical way depressive emotions harm sensitive individuals.

Tony’s issue is known as mourning in psychology.

Gu Weijing’s current state is referred to as “PLOM,” an acronym for “Poor little old me” (note).

(Note: PLOM – Poor little old me)

It started with just a minor emotional setback, like the first snowflake shaken from a mountain peak.

Then,

The chain reaction began.

The negative emotions accumulated and compounded as the snowflakes rolled down the mountain, faster and faster, growing more and more.

From snowflake to snowball, and then turning into an avalanche covering the whole mountainside as emotions swept through like a tide.

Objectively, the patient may have a successful career and a perfect family, but in the ever-growing negative emotion process, they play out various “tragic me” roles in their minds like a game player.

They continuously imagine the tragic scenarios they might face, and once again are hurt by such scenarios.

This cycle repeats endlessly.

The terrifying thing about this game is.

If the patient cannot extricate themselves with supreme will and enlightened awareness during the process like being drawn by gravity toward the earth’s core.

Then he would indeed become that “poor little old me” in the PLOM role-play game.

Most depression patients ruin all the beautiful things in their lives and head towards self-destruction in this way.

It is a fine line between illusion and prophecy.

The brush in Gu Weijing’s hand made a creaking sound due to his involuntary exertion, and the bamboo shaft even threatened to bend a little.

Whether this was good or bad, who could tell.

When going out for leisure, Gu Weijing couldn’t bring himself to carry the ancestral old brushes handed down to him by Gu Tongxiang.