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

Smith couldn't help but push up his glasses and whisper to his colleague, "This young man speaks very eloquently; I didn't expect him to know so much."

“By the 70s, due to the evolution of oil painting techniques, cracking no longer occurred.” Chen Yang drew a timeline in the air with his finger. “The key breakthrough was the new acrylic resin developed by DuPont in 1968, which changed the entire industry. This resin had a higher molecular weight, better elasticity, and its compatibility with pigments was almost doubled.”

"The photorealists of this period relied on high-purity pigments and utilized their quick-drying properties to achieve thick coats that did not collapse. This is the biggest difference between the two periods in terms of oil paints," Chen Yang said in a light tone, his fingers nimbly mimicking the brushstrokes of a painter.

"The extremely precise detail in the works of photorealist masters like Chuck Close and Richard Estes was almost impossible to achieve with the paint conditions of the 50s. Their ability to complete fine brushstrokes in one go without repeated revisions was thanks to the revolutionary advancements in paint technology in the 70s."

Chen Yang paused, took a deep breath, and his gaze became even sharper. "What best reflects the difference between the two periods is the stability of the pigments. Pigments in the 50s had a color change rate of up to 15% under ultraviolet light, while in the 70s it dropped to below 5%. This is why early works require more stringent lighting conditions for preservation, and museums usually limit the annual exhibition time of such works to less than 120 days."

He approached the painting, bending down to observe it, but still maintaining a certain distance. "Interestingly, although the cracks on the surface of this painting try to imitate the characteristics of works from the 50s, the edges of the cracks are too regular, and their distribution does not conform to the natural aging process. Cracks that are truly formed over time will have tiny serrated edges, and they often extend along the direction of the painter's brushstrokes."

After Chen Yang finished speaking, he pointed to the fine cracks on the oil painting, his eyes gleaming with wisdom, "The cracks we see now are all man-made, not marks left by time, but deliberate traces of forgers."

His voice was calm yet powerful, like a scalpel precisely cutting through the veil of truth.

"I can tell you definitively that this is done by using the heat of a hairdryer on a certain spot after the oil painting has dried, and then gently tapping it with a small hammer after it reaches a certain temperature."

Chen Yang mimicked the tapping motion, his eyes filled with disdain for the forger. "The cracks in a genuine old painting are formed by the slow release of internal stress in the paint over time, and the depth of the cracks varies. However, the cracks in this painting are almost all the same depth, which is almost impossible to occur in a natural state."

"In the parlance of our Chinese antique trade, this is called a fake, and it's the lowest level of fakery I've ever seen. In China, it would be considered an apprentice's level!" Chen Yang's tone revealed a hint of disdain, as if he were commenting on a clumsy magic trick.

“A true master forger would use materials containing ancient elements, or even collect scraps from genuine ancient paintings, grind them up, and mix them with new pigments to fool carbon-14 dating. But this painting imitates even the basic traces of time so crudely; it's an insult to forgery.”

Upon hearing Chen Yang's words, Smith's face turned from red to pale, and the muscles around his eyes twitched involuntarily. Jason and Yoshida also looked like they'd been stepped on; the three exchanged glances, understanding each other perfectly. This arrogant Eastern boy dared to be so presumptuous in front of these art world authorities! Not only did he call the painting a fake, but he also belittled European art while conveniently elevating Chinese art—this was simply intolerable.

Smith felt his blood boiling in his veins. If they weren't in a public place, he would have loved to slap Chen Yang across the face. He took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and straightened his tie with feigned composure.

Smith snorted softly through his nose, a low growl like that of a wild beast being provoked emanating from deep within his throat. "After all that talk, it's all just a bunch of nonsense!"

His voice carried a strong British accent, and that condescending arrogance and contempt almost overflowed from every syllable.

“If you can’t prove these are seventy-year-old oil paints, then all of this is meaningless!” Smith defiantly raised his chin, his eyes fixed on Chen Yang, as if trying to pin him to the spot with his gaze. His hands were crossed in front of his chest, like an invisible defensive line, refusing to accept any rebuttal. A cold smile played on Smith’s lips, a disdain for the weak and an arrogance stemming from his belief in absolute correctness.

“Exactly,” Yoshida said with a smirk, his eyes narrowing into slits, his gaze behind his glasses flashing with disdain and contempt. His fingers tapped incessantly on his arm, the rhythm rapid and impatient.

"Young man, what you're saying might fool ordinary people, but don't you even look at the kind of people who've come to this art exhibition?" Yoshida glanced around at the audience, a sense of camaraderie and complicity on his face appearing as if he were trying to rally everyone to fight against this uninvited guest.

His voice grew louder and louder, as if he wanted to use the volume to suppress the other person's aura, "Whose status isn't higher than yours, and who hasn't seen more works of art than you?"

Every word Yoshida spoke was like a small knife, attempting to cut wounds into Chen Yang's confidence. He pushed up his glasses, his typical Japanese scholarly demeanor exuding an aggressive air.

Yoshida glanced at his watch, a renowned Swiss timepiece. He deliberately pinched his shirt cuff with his index finger and thumb, revealing the expensive watch on his wrist, the gesture full of deliberate affectation. "After all that nonsense, we still can't authenticate this oil paint!"

Yoshida's voice was laced with contempt and sarcasm, as if victory was already in his grasp and he was waiting to see Chen Yang make a fool of himself. A self-satisfied smile curled at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes swept back and forth between Chen Yang and the other experts, seemingly searching for resonance and support.

“Young man, I have something to say to you seriously,” Jason stepped forward, strode heavily to the front row, his demeanor exuding the arrogance and conceit typical of Westerners. His blue eyes flashed with disdain and provocation as he looked at Chen Yang with a mocking expression, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth, like a hunter eyeing its prey.

Jason stood with his hands in his suit pockets, his relaxed demeanor as if he were watching a farce. His voice was deep and powerful, each word like a drumbeat, "Anyway, if you can't show us right now that this oil painting is evidence of the 1970s, you lose!"

Jason's eyes gleamed with victory, as if he could already see Chen Yang's defeat. His chest puffed out slightly, displaying the confidence and pride of a Western art expert.

As he spoke, Jason pointed at Chen Yang, his finger like a sharp sword aimed straight at Chen Yang's heart, his provocation overflowing, "Then you'll have to kneel down and kowtow to us to admit your mistake!"

As soon as Jason finished speaking, the atmosphere in the room froze. The three foreign experts looked menacing, their eyes filled with disdain and contempt for the young Chinese expert. Jason raised an eyebrow, a cunning glint in his eyes, waiting for his prey to fall into his carefully laid trap.

Upon hearing this, Song Kaiyuan, Geng Lao, and the rest of the Chinese delegation felt their hearts leap into their throats, a sense of unease akin to the tension of a rollercoaster about to reach its climax. Their gazes darted back and forth between Chen Yang and the three foreign experts, fearing a single misstep could lead to a diplomatic incident.

However, regarding Chen Yang's eloquent explanation of the professional knowledge about the composition of oil paints, these people began to have doubts, because they had never heard anyone mention this before. For a moment, the atmosphere in the room became unusually subtle; everyone looked at each other with suspicion and uncertainty in their eyes.

As a seasoned veteran of the antique world, Song Kaiyuan felt a growing suspicion. His hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched, his brow furrowed as he scrutinized Chen Yang's every move. In his view, Chen Yang's profound knowledge of oil paints was highly suspicious, given that the young man usually gave the impression of an ordinary antique dealer. Even though Chen Yang could answer fluently and spout a string of technical terms, Song Kaiyuan still felt that this knowledge was likely cobbled together from various sources and learned at the last minute. He secretly thought that this kid was probably playing psychological tactics, deliberately trying to bluff his way out of trouble.

This kind of situation is all too common in the antique trade. Whenever two people in the same trade are interested in the same piece, one of them will always bring out a bunch of technical jargon, pretending to point out what's wrong here and what's wrong there, trying to use their expertise to bluff the other. Their goal is simply to make their opponent believe that what they have is a fake, so they can take the opportunity to lower the price and buy it.

The more Song Kaiyuan thought about it, the more he felt that this kind of trick must be commonplace for Chen Yang. After all, in the antique business, calling genuine items fake or rare items commonplace is a very common practice. As a seasoned antique dealer, Chen Yang must have used this trick many times to drive down prices; it's practically a basic skill in their line of work.

Therefore, Song Kaiyuan was convinced that Chen Yang was deceiving these people. A seasoned veteran of the antique world, he saw through Chen Yang's trick; it was nothing more than a common deception in the antique trade. Countless times he had seen young merchants make boastful claims at appraisal events, only to be exposed by true experts.

At this moment, Song Kaiyuan felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his heart, and an ominous premonition spread through him. The lights in the exhibition hall flickered in his eyes, seemingly foreshadowing the impending storm. Thinking of this, Song Kaiyuan sighed softly, his brows furrowed, as if he could already see the cultural diplomacy storm about to unfold.

His hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched, his mind racing as he plotted how to clean up the mess after Chen Yang's mishap. All he could do now was mutter to himself, "Kid, you were too careless this time. These are top-tier international artists, experts with decades of experience in oil painting. They've seen more masterpieces than you've walked roads. Your street tricks might work on a street vendor, but they won't do against these art giants!"

Hearing Song Kaiyuan muttering to himself, Old Geng keenly sensed something amiss. As an important member of the cultural delegation, he dared not overlook any detail. He saw the uncertain expression on Song Kaiyuan's face, and the worry in his eyes like the calm before a storm.

Old Geng's heart sank. He quietly moved closer to Song Kaiyuan, feigning composure, but his pale knuckles betrayed his unease. He lowered his voice, a slight tremor in it, "Old Song, what are you muttering about? You look so worried, have you discovered something?"

Song Kaiyuan glanced around to make sure no one else noticed their subtle movements before quietly sharing his thoughts with Old Geng. He described the common tricks antique dealers might use, and the possibility of being exposed in front of international experts. As Song Kaiyuan spoke, Old Geng's face gradually turned from red to white, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, as if he had heard an unfortunate prophecy. The worries hidden deep in his heart were now concrete, becoming an undeniable fact.

Old Geng nodded slightly after listening, his fingers unconsciously rubbing together as his gaze drifted towards Chen Yang's direction. Just how much real talent did this young man possess? If so, the situation was probably dire! National honor and cultural dignity would be tarnished by the recklessness of a young man.

Old Geng shook his head with a wry smile, a hint of helplessness and deep worry flashing in his eyes. His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. "Now I just hope that kid Chen Yang can outwit everyone and use his silver tongue to refute Smith and his ilk's claims, forcing them to use clever arguments to cover up the truth. Otherwise..."

"We're in trouble now!" Song Kaiyuan chimed in, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, yet as heavy as a thousand pounds.