Rebirth 93: Break off the engagement at the beginning and marry Bai Fumei

Upon hearing Chen Yang's voice, the people gathered around the oil painting turned around, their gazes immediately fixed on him like spotlights. The artists in suits exchanged glances, a hint of surprise and displeasure flashing in their eyes. When they saw Chen Yang's nonchalant demeanor, hands in his pockets, his eyes casually sweeping over the valuable painting, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips, it was clear he was showing utter contempt for them, these so-called art authorities.

Smith and the others were struck dumb, their expressions shifting from surprise to rage. Their eyes widened, blazing with fury that seemed to materialize. Smith, the most senior art critic in the group, naturally wouldn't tolerate such blasphemy. He was the first to strike, letting out a soft snort, a sound like a proud swan's warning after being offended.

He slowly raised his face, which was covered by gold-rimmed glasses, and glanced at Dean Zeng, who was standing awkwardly to the side, with a gloomy look in his eyes. He said in Mandarin with a heavy Western accent, "Dean Zeng, you Chinese are becoming more and more unruly. How dare you be so disrespectful in this kind of occasion."

As he spoke, Smith extended the finger adorned with an expensive diamond ring and pointed at Chen Yang, as if he wanted to nail Chen Yang to the spot. His finger trembled slightly as he looked around, seemingly seeking the support of other artists. Sure enough, everyone nodded, their faces showing displeasure.

Smith cleared his throat, raising his voice a few decibels: "Look at him, that lazy posture, that contemptuous look, that disdainful expression. Is he openly showing contempt for the oil painting art we've created with our life's work? This is a provocation against our Western art tradition!"

Just as Dean Zeng opened his mouth, an arrogant voice suddenly came from the side of the hall, interrupting his words. Jason, standing not far away, strode closer with an arrogant gait, a disdainful smile on his pale face, and a glint of contempt in his eyes. He first glanced around to make sure everyone's eyes were on him, and then slowly spoke, his tone full of sarcasm.

“Mr. Smith, why get angry over such a trivial matter? This is nothing, it’s nothing compared to the bigger picture!” Jason waved his hand dismissively, a deliberate smile playing on his lips. “In my opinion, in less than ten minutes, this young Chinese friend will probably jump out and shout that oil painting originated in China! They’re always like this, aren’t they?”

Jason clapped his hands dramatically, his gaze sweeping defiantly over Chen Yang and the other Chinese representatives. "The next second, they'll probably bring out some ancient painting from a thousand years ago, claiming that it's the prototype of oil painting! Mr. Smith, do you believe such a ridiculous claim? Haha!" His laughter was particularly jarring in the hall, like a sharp blade slicing through the tense atmosphere.

“Heh,” Mr. Yoshida, who had been silent all along, couldn’t help but interject at this moment. His signature cold laugh slowly came through, and his eyes behind his glasses narrowed slightly, revealing a hint of disdain and contempt. He first straightened his suit and tie, and then slowly said, “I’m already used to this habit of the Chinese.”

Mr. Yoshida stood up, gently pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses with his right hand, and put his left hand in his suit pocket, adopting a scholarly posture, but he couldn't hide the acerbic sarcasm in his words: "These Chinese people seem to suffer from some kind of strange 'cultural paranoia,' shouting every day that this is a robber, that has stolen their things, as if all the precious cultural relics and inventions in the world should belong to China."

Mr. Yoshida's gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a moment on the faces of the members of the Chinese delegation, a mocking smile playing on his lips: "They are always hopelessly immersed in their own fantasy of being the 'center of civilization.' They try every means to attribute anything of value to their ancestors. Mr. Smith, I think they have now set their greedy eyes on the oil painting art that you Europeans are so proud of!"

At this point, Yoshida's expression became even more exaggerated. He pretended to be surprised, covering his mouth, then pursed his lips and couldn't help but laugh out loud. He bent over, his shoulders trembling slightly, "Mr. Smith, I bet these Chinese representatives, after returning home, will be able to fabricate detailed records about oil painting techniques out of thin air from their magical 'Records of the Grand Historian' or some other ancient book within a month!"

As he spoke, Mr. Yoshida made a gesture of turning the pages of a book, imitating the act of reciting an ancient text: "'In a certain year of the Tang Dynasty, a certain master had mastered the method of mixing oil paints, creating a precedent for oil painting in the world'—haha, this absurd 'discovery' will probably soon appear in their academic journals!"

Jason and several other Western representatives burst into laughter upon hearing this, and the atmosphere in the room instantly became extremely sarcastic and hostile.

Hearing their remarks, Song Kaiyuan and Elder Geng, who hadn't been paying much attention, turned around, their gazes fixed intently on the foreign representatives. Song Kaiyuan's expression gradually turned cold, a barely perceptible glint of anger flashing in his eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. He slowly rose, straightened his collar, and a meaningful, cold smile played on his lips.

"My foreign friends seem to have a deep 'understanding' of our Chinese culture," Song Kaiyuan deliberately emphasized the word "understanding," his voice unhurried yet carrying immense weight. He glanced around, his gaze finally settling on Jason and Yoshida, a cold smile playing on his lips, his eyes sharp as knives: "However, I can assure you one thing: we Chinese have always been pragmatic. What is ours, we will fight for it with all our might, at any cost; what is not ours, even if you give it to us for free, we will never accept. This is our national integrity, and also our cultural confidence."

Song Kaiyuan's words were forceful and resounding, leaving the foreign representatives who had been mocking him speechless.

“But…” Song Kaiyuan suddenly changed the subject. He extended his right index finger and pointed it directly at Jason, Yoshida, and the others. His eyes gleamed with wisdom, and he revealed a meaningful smile: “It’s quite a coincidence that your sarcasm has reminded me of something very important.”

"Since you've brought up the question of the origins of oil painting, we should indeed go back and thoroughly examine our ancient books and historical materials to seriously study whether oil painting art is indeed related to certain ancient Chinese painting techniques! This is not something made up out of thin air, but rather a matter of academic rigor and exploration."

Upon hearing Song Kaiyuan's words, Chen Yang chuckled, a sly glint in his eyes. He slowly curled his lip, speaking in a tone that was half-teasing and half-mocking: "Old Song, aren't you just stirring up trouble? How could these rubbish things be invented by our ancestors? If our ancestors knew someone was trying to pin this on them, they'd be turning in their graves."

As soon as Chen Yang finished speaking, Smith and Yoshida's expressions darkened, their brows furrowing, clearly displeased with his words. They exchanged a glance, seemingly confirming that the young man was indeed provoking them.

Chen Yang, however, paid no attention to their reactions. Instead, he stretched, cracked his neck, and made a "snap" sound, as if his words had been casually uttered. He crossed his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and continued, "Besides, the art of Chinese painting emphasizes artistic conception and spirit. Every stroke is a manifestation of the soul. Why bother with such complicated procedures?"

Upon hearing this, Song Kaiyuan and Elder Geng exchanged a smile, their eyes filled with approval. They seemed to greatly admire Chen Yang's composed and dignified attitude.

Chen Yang stood up and walked with relaxed steps toward the oil painting that was being watched by the crowd. Every step he took was full of confidence and exceptional composure. Chen Yang puffed out his chest, put his hands on his hips, narrowed his eyes, and looked down at the oil painting with a superior air. "This fake oil painting is much easier to authenticate than our silk and paper paintings! In terms of age, our silk paintings can be traced back to a thousand years ago; in terms of craftsmanship, our Xuan paper and ink are unique in the world; in terms of preservation, our ancient paintings have survived a thousand years of vicissitudes and are still lifelike."

Chen Yang paused deliberately, glancing around at everyone present. His gaze lingered for a moment on the faces of Smith, Jason, and Yoshida, as if enjoying their unpleasant expressions. Then he grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, his eyes full of provocation: "Compared to this, these Western oil paintings, which are only a few decades old, are utterly insignificant, not worth mentioning!"

Smith's face turned ashen, his beard trembling slightly; he was clearly enraged. Jason clenched his fists, his eyes flashing with fury. Yoshida sneered repeatedly, his gaze fixed on Chen Yang with a dark expression, seemingly contemplating how to retaliate.

Seeing their reaction, Chen Yang not only didn't back down, but became even more smug and continued, "Look at this painting. It's just piled-up paint, lacking soul. Although the technique is good, it always gives people a stiff and rigid feeling. Unlike our ancient Chinese paintings, every stroke contains the philosophical idea of ​​the unity of man and nature. It emphasizes 'poetry in painting, painting in poetry,' which is true art!"

Several Chinese experts present looked at Chen Yang with some surprise upon hearing this, seemingly not expecting this young man to have such a profound understanding of Chinese and Western painting art. Song Kaiyuan nodded slightly, clearly agreeing with Chen Yang's words.

Seeing everyone's reaction, Chen Yang waved his hand more confidently and pointed to the oil painting, saying, "Besides, you've been discussing this for almost half an hour, and you still can't tell if it's real or fake. What right do you have to talk so much here?"

He turned to Smith and the others, his eyes full of mockery. "They've been talking for ages and haven't come to any conclusion! In my opinion, the brushstrokes and paint in this painting are clearly a later imitation. How could a genuine piece have such clumsy marks? It's obviously a fake at a glance. Why did we need to discuss it for so long?"

These words caused an uproar in the room. Dean Zeng and Secretary Li exchanged glances, unsure how to respond. Song Kaiyuan, on the other hand, looked at Chen Yang thoughtfully, a hint of surprise and admiration flashing in his eyes.