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

These four words weighed heavily on the hearts of the two elderly men, like a boulder. A suffocating silence followed, as if the air in the entire exhibition hall had frozen. They exchanged a knowing glance, a look that revealed concern for national honor, anxiety about future diplomatic relations, and sympathy for the impending predicament of the young man, Chen Yang.

Meanwhile, Anderson, standing beside Chen Yang, listened to Chen Yang's words, his brows gradually relaxed, and his eyes flashed with the keen insight of a professional, as if he had grasped some crucial clue. He took a deep breath, disregarding his composure as a senior appraiser, and leaned down, almost touching the surface of the oil painting with his nose. He took out his magnifying glass and began to examine the painting closely.

Everyone present held their breath, every tiny movement of Anderson tugging at their nerves. His fingers traced the canvas millimeters above the surface, pausing occasionally, his eyes narrowed to slits, as if trying to take in every single detail of the painting. Fine beads of sweat gradually appeared on Anderson's forehead, his breathing became heavy and slow, and he fell into a state of near-meditative concentration.

Those Western experts who had initially scoffed at Chen Yang's remarks now involuntarily leaned forward, eager to glimpse the secrets Anderson had discovered. The air in the room seemed to freeze, save for Anderson's occasional thoughtful hums.

Anderson's long, slender fingers tapped lightly along the edge of the canvas, as if confirming some kind of feeling. He would occasionally take off his glasses to wipe them, then put them back on, repeatedly comparing how the painting appeared under different lighting conditions. He even smelled the painting, seemingly trying to find more clues in its scent.

A moment later, under everyone's tense gaze, Anderson slowly straightened up, his eyes gleaming with the light of discovery. His breathing was slightly rapid, as if he had just completed a mental adventure. Anderson suddenly looked up at Chen Yang, his eyes filled with surprise and a hint of barely perceptible admiration.

“You have a point,” Anderson said slowly, his voice slightly excited by his discovery. “No, I should say it makes a lot of sense. I must admit that your insights into the historical evolution of pigments have made me re-examine this work.”

He gathered his thoughts briefly and continued, "Oil paintings from fifty years ago often have a special classical luster due to the composition of the pigments and the production process at that time. That luster presents a subtle sense of layering under natural light, almost as if it is breathing with life."

Anderson's voice gradually became more firm, as if each word he uttered was a confirmation of a fact: "And the oil paintings of the 1970s, due to the accelerated industrialization at that time, the pigment formulas underwent fundamental changes, tending more towards the flat lighting effect of modern industry. That effect appears more uniform under side lighting and lacks the 'vitality' unique to early oil paintings."

The experts and scholars present exchanged glances, some of them beginning to whisper among themselves, discussing Anderson's discovery. Anderson, however, paid no heed to these murmurs; his attention was entirely focused on the painting before him.

As he spoke, Anderson pointed to a corner of the oil painting, where the paint, under the light, presented a subtle texture different from the rest of the painting.

“Please pay attention here,” he said, his tone tinged with the excitement of discovering the truth. “The flat lighting effect in this corner is very obvious, creating a subtle but noticeable difference in glossiness compared to the rest of the painting. This incongruity suggests that the other parts may have been specially treated, artificially given a more ‘ancient’ appearance.”

As soon as Anderson finished speaking, the hall erupted in an uproar. Experts who had initially been skeptical of Chen Yang flocked to the painting, eager to examine it closely. Meanwhile, members of the Chinese delegation exchanged surprised glances, seemingly seeing a glimmer of hope.

Upon hearing Anderson's words, Jason was the first to step forward, his expression quickly shifting from shock to anger and disdain. Veins bulged on his forehead, and his hands clenched into fists involuntarily; he clearly couldn't accept that his carefully chosen work was being questioned.

Jason strode forward, standing almost aggressively in front of Anderson, his voice carrying a clear warning: "Mr. Anderson, you are a renowned art appraiser in Europe. I hope you will think carefully before you speak."

Jason's eyes narrowed dangerously as he glanced around, seemingly reminding Anderson that his reputation and status depended on this one move. His breathing quickened, and he was clearly struggling to control his emotions.

After a brief silence, Jason took a deep breath and switched to professional discussion mode, although his voice was still tense: "You and I both know that after an oil painting is completed," he began slowly, trying to refute Anderson's judgment with his professional knowledge, "painters usually apply a layer of varnish to the surface of the work. Common varnishes are made of a mixture of natural or synthetic resins and turpentine."

Jason argued forcefully, his voice rising and his gestures becoming more exaggerated, like a lawyer defending his client in court: "Gloss not only keeps the dried paint glossy, but this invisible barrier also isolates the painting from the air. Oxygen, moisture, corrosive gases, dust, and all sorts of other elements that want to steal the color are kept out, allowing the painting to retain its original color under this protective barrier."

Jason's eyes gleamed with confidence. He took a step forward, looking directly into Anderson's eyes. Pointing at the painting, Jason loudly questioned Anderson, his voice laced with challenge and a hint of mockery: "Mr. Anderson, tell me, how is it forged under the protection of the varnish?"

"Hmph!" Anderson snorted disdainfully, a sharp glint in his eyes. He raised his head slightly, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "Mr. Jason, as colleagues, we all know the ins and outs of this industry. Since you understand varnish so well, you must also understand that even the strongest fortress has its weaknesses."

Anderson stepped gracefully forward, his long, slender fingers lightly tracing the surface of the oil painting. "Let me give you a vivid art lesson. You say varnish is the guardian of a painting, but have you ever considered that it could also be a breeding ground for destruction?"

His gaze swept over the painting, his voice carrying the composure characteristic of a professional: "The protective varnish you're so proud of is nothing more than a thin sheet of paper in the face of certain special microorganisms."

Anderson suddenly turned to face everyone present, raising his voice slightly, "Ladies and gentlemen, let me explain to you that between the paint and varnish layers of an oil painting, some microorganisms have found the perfect habitat. It's like a hidden underground kingdom where uninvited guests like Aspergillus, Penicillium, and Cladosporium are holding their feast."

His fingers traced a graceful arc across the surface of the painting. "They are like messengers of time, silently altering the fate of the paint. Even the finest varnish cannot stop their erosion of the painting."

After listening to this impassioned speech, Jason's face showed a playful smile. He adjusted his suit collar and stretched his shoulders, revealing the muscles beneath his suit jacket. "Mr. Anderson, I must say, your research on microorganisms is truly impressive."

He paused, a sly glint in his eyes. "But let's explore a more interesting question: In your words, if someone deliberately introduced these fungi into a painting, could you explain how they did it?"

“This is utterly absurd!” Smith couldn’t help but interject, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes gleaming with disdain. “Mr. Anderson, please forgive my bluntness. But this speculation is far too far-fetched. We’re talking about fungi, living microorganisms! This isn’t some paint or chemical substance that can be manipulated at will.”

Hearing this, Anderson's brows furrowed involuntarily, his heart churning like a turbulent sea, unable to find the right words to refute it. He had to admit that this seemingly absurd theory was logically flawless, yet its practical implementation seemed impossibly far off. Just as Anderson was bowing his head, troubled by this enormous gap between reality and ideal, Chen Yang, who had remained silent all along, suddenly spoke.

"Of course there's a way. Why aren't you using your brains?" Chen Yang curled his lip dismissively, crossed his arms, and looked at the group of people present with an air of confidence. His eyes gleamed with wisdom. "It's so simple. We can do it with just a few simple movements."

“What? Easy?” Jason was taken aback at first, then burst into a shrill laugh, filled with disdain and contempt for Easterners.

He spread his hands exaggeratedly, every wrinkle on his face etched with sarcasm, his eyes radiating a condescending sense of superiority. "Oh, this is absolutely the funniest joke I've heard all year! Everyone, come and see how ridiculous this arrogant Chinese man is. He actually said that getting fungi onto an oil painting is a simple matter, haha, this is even funnier than a clown's performance!"

Upon hearing this, Yoshida raised his head and let out a series of sharp laughs, a laugh that seemed to mock the entire Eastern civilization, "Young people!"

He spoke in a condescending tone, his eyes filled with contempt, "I had long heard that China's technological level was backward, but I never expected it to be this ignorant."

As he spoke, he gestured in the air with his finger as if looking at an innocent child, his voice filled with sarcasm, "Do you know what fungi are? They're microorganisms that are completely invisible to the naked eye; you need a high-powered microscope to observe them. Tell me, how do you accurately transfer something invisible onto an oil painting? It's utterly a fantasy!"

"Snap!" The crisp snap of his fingers broke the mocking atmosphere in the air. Chen Yang's lips curled into a meaningful smile, and a sly glint flashed in his eyes. "Mr. Yoshida, you are right about one thing this time!"

His tone was relaxed and casual, yet it contained a sharp edge. "Although, according to your idea, China may not be able to perform such precise operations right now, that doesn't mean Western countries can't." There was a hint of mockery in his voice. "It is precisely because their technology is indeed leading in certain fields that they are able to accomplish such seemingly impossible tasks."

As he spoke, Chen Yang walked gracefully toward the oil painting, every movement exuding an air of composure. He raised his right hand and made a fluid, spraying motion, as if he were actually holding a sprayer.

“The method is actually very simple,” he said with an air of confidence. “Just spray the specially treated fungal solution evenly onto the surface of the oil painting, and the problem will be solved easily.”

As soon as Chen Yang finished speaking, everyone present gasped in unison, their eyes flashing with sudden realization. Anderson subconsciously stroked his chin, his mind already simulating the feasibility of this plan.