I am not Ximen Qing.

“Catherine, Catherine,”

Christopher's cry is not about Jade Hill Manor, but about Christopher's Wuthering Heights—a cry for love, a roar that love is gone.

Zhao Ji reunited with her lover from her illusions and dreams at Wuthering Heights. Living in the illusion of love, she found herself unable to experience the legendary life of Christopher. But then, love, undeterred by anything, arrived. Zhang Sheng and Zhao Ji, hand in hand, savored a perfect, fleeting dream. What can one do in the face of love and passion? Impatience was palpable; a humble abode or a thatched hut didn't matter. The illusory love Zhao Ji brought to Zhang Sheng was so open and wondrous, a Dionysian revelry of decadence, the rights and carefree abandon of youth, a carefree indulgence.

Running itself carries a selfish thought; in her dream, she appears on a distant bridge, where only Zhao Ji exists. A dream of a covered bridge—that bridge is the wooden bridge in the Olympic Park. The distant Yangshan Mountain, bathed in the bright moonlight, is a stone from Mount Tai, a stone from Mount Tai. Chinese mythology is inseparable from stones. The stele on Yangshan Mountain is beautifully named: Heavenly Realm, a clear blue sky. At the south gate of the Olympic Forest Park on Beijing's central axis, one can see the Olympic Open-Air Theater, a lush green meadow where Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" can be performed. The fountains in the lake can instantly spray mist, dancing, allowing one to listen to Beethoven's Symphony No. 5, a tragic human fate; the spraying water possesses Beethoven's soul.

On the opposite shore of the lake lies Tianyuan, where one can lean on the railing and compose a poem to admire the vast sea. The poem evokes images of heroes from the Three Kingdoms period, recalling the fleeting glory of ancient China. The lake's surface is like a mirror, reflecting the Chinese people's reverence for the dragon totem and the connection between everything and the dragon. This is where the dragon-shaped water system converges. The central axis once witnessed the marathon spirit of ancient Greece, a testament to the peace-loving warriors of ancient Greece. The Olympic spirit of forgetting war and valuing peace is embodied in the Linglong Tower, the Five Rings Tower, the Bird's Nest, the Water Cube, and the National Stadium. Pangu Plaza's iconic and majestic buildings stand on both sides. The dragon, like a dragon hidden in the water, soars in the sky, symbolizing the nation's revival. The revitalized nation, like the Olympic flame burning brightly in the Bird's Nest, sees the dragon take flight. Gazing at the celestial mirror hidden in the trees atop Yangshan Mountain, the boundary between heaven and earth, the sacred Olympic mountain, the paradise of the gods, the foundation of the world and the universe, the origin of the universe—this is divine thought, this is imagination. The Big Bang—see Lao Tzu's *Tao Te Ching*. Now, shrouded in mist, the lake and mountains are connected, trees in the fog, mountains in the forest—a living masterpiece of nature. Having visited countless times, I know this is a sacred mountain in the bustling city, a place for self-cultivation and tranquility, a perfect sanctuary.

Zhang Sheng is lost in Zhao Ji's dreamlike shadow. She always stirs up Zhang Sheng's expectations of love and romance before disappearing like lightning. This is Zhao Ji's pure and abstract expression of love and romance. Walking in the rain, the drizzle is misty and ethereal. Enjoying the scenery in the rain, the rain brings coolness and drives away the summer heat. Let restless love and romance return to their true nature in the rain. The true nature is with heaven and earth and man, arising from emptiness, and the soul is lost in the bustling city. The wisdom of restoring one's spiritual senses amidst mountains and waters, originally intended as a metaphor for enlightenment, is merely a result of losing one's true nature. Ignoring signs and following the flaws of the heart to search for love and affection, one doesn't know what kind of love and affection one will find. Confusion and disorientation become the driving force for heading towards the distance. The bamboo groves on both sides of the path are layered upon each other, unlike the small bridges and flowing water of Yaoli in Jiangxi, where ancient bridges and winding paths meander through lush bamboo forests. Huizhou merchants greatly admired blue and white porcelain, and Jingdezhen's blue and white porcelain reached the world through their hands. Here, the bamboo groves resemble delicate, graceful maidens; the leaves are not the vibrant green of midsummer, but rather tinged with a wistful yellow.

When the girls reach the season of love, their smiles become somewhat sickly with longing. It is the passionate energy of love that emanates from their bodies. The melancholy and sorrow of the Lady of the Xiang River, she is the soul of the bamboo forest, wandering in the bamboo grove searching for love and affection between heaven and earth. How she longs to help others achieve their happiness. The Lady of the Xiang River, the most beautiful girl. The young master of the West Chamber once visited. The fragrant bamboo is desolate and sad. So many beauties, so many goddesses, so many girls with beautiful expectations. The burgeoning lust, the flirtatious banter in the bamboo grove—it was a paradise for girls. In this bamboo grove, the graceful maiden Su Junmei appeared, her beauty like jade, her fragrance permeating the bamboo. Her skin was as white as bamboo shoots, her legs long and slender, her waist supple and elastic. Souls were stirred; love and affection, driven by desire, became lost and confused. Searching for love was merely an excuse for desire. After the illusion of the maiden's beauty vanished, they pointed out a path, a small trail branching off to one side of the path. Lin Yin had lingered countless times at this crossroads, the poetic beauty hidden deep within the green shade.

This gallery showcases the paintings of Chinese masters, an outpouring of love and passion from the artists. Without the enlightenment of the world's boundaries and the realm of formlessness, no artwork is born. The realm of desire is the enlightenment of the art world; enlightenment finds the beauty of the maiden in the artwork. Go find Beatrice beneath the throne of God, the light of the world, in the world of rain, use your heart to create a new world of light. This gallery is a temple of love, with statues of mother and child in the forest. There is a playground for children, where goddesses of beauty and love beckon. All you see is the floating love taste of maidens. Let the goddess Zhao Jielke seduce you, even if you become a lion or a tiger—a perfect union of beauty and beast. Love and the goddess are the best imagination of desire; the wild soul needs the goddess's motivation to save it. The gallery is wide and long, a labyrinth of love with no end in sight, the charm of landscape painting…

Grandpa hoped my father would become an oil painter. Before he turned 18, my father studied oil painting with an oil painter, occasionally producing some masterpieces when he was in a good mood. My mother hoped my father would drink and smoke less, and that creating new art would cultivate his character. This was my mother's cruelest wish for my father. Fate changed the lives of his children because of my father's grandfather's death. My father went to work early, as did his siblings. Children without a father often lack soul and spirit. The hardships of life filled their artistic thoughts. Only when they grew up did they understand that the soul of an artist is lonely, escapist, and irresponsible. No wonder my father chose wine and meat instead of painting, things that would make him stand out. In life, he remained ordinary, just getting by. Art can't put food on the table, so he chose to escape, not knowing what he was escaping from. I understand now, he was escaping pain. Painting makes the spirit too pure, and in life, purity is romantic, incompatible. Didn't my father's poems and essays also express the frustration of unfulfilled dreams?

Not everyone understands. I painted a picture at age 10, influenced by what I saw and heard. I had no impression of women; it was an instinctive drawing. Actually, art is a creative search for the meaning of life. I didn't understand how life came into this world; I thought my mother found me, that's what older women told their children, and the girls believed it. Buddha was born from his mother's side, Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary. Lao Tzu was a historian, Confucius was born of a young mother. The sages of China are undoubtedly the most down-to-earth, without so much mythological embellishment. How were we born, as described in the Classic of Mountains and Seas? Like the two ancient Greek epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, and Ovid's Metamorphosis, Jupiter's secret love affair with an earthly woman resulted in the gods becoming kings of cities. Prometheus created humankind, the hand of God. The paintings in this gallery are all sentient beings, the painters are the great Jupiter, the God who created life. I once didn't understand my father's hardships, and my uncle even mocked his lack of ambition. These paintings of life, exhibited here, are the work of masters. In human society, who can understand the bitter tears of ten years to be called a master? The lifelike spirits under their brushes are the crystallization of imagination. To be exhibited here is a blessing from a past life. Art is beautiful, but behind beauty lies a cruel reality. The price of art is not small. The works of the artists here are undoubtedly the lucky ones to gain recognition for their artistic achievements. How many artists, while alive, have their creative talents prematurely drained by the trivialities of life? There is another one who creates art, which consumes his mind and body, all his energy. He made the right decision; he had no better choice. His decision was right to struggle in this world.

Living in this world is not just about oneself, but also about one's brothers and sisters, and one's many children. A man's shoulders are born to bear the weight of life. He understood that art is a profession at the pinnacle, and achieving fame is almost a pipe dream; one would either become insane or a mentally unstable person detached from worldly affairs. Lu Xun's royalties were undoubtedly substantial, but there was only one Lu Xun in the world. Lu Xun's works, such as *Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk*, *The True Story of Ah Q*, and *Kong Yiji*, demonstrate his greatness, at least surpassing Lin Yutang in integrity. Lin Yutang, representing a segment of contemporary Chinese artists, has never respected "My Country and My People," portraying Chinese humanity in an excessively ugly light. Westerners are undoubtedly wise; Lin Yutang's English name is "Excellent," connecting Chinese culture with American social concerns. Lao Tzu, Confucius, and Su Dongpo are all written in English, as is Li Yu's "Idle Thoughts" in "The Art of Living." Ancient Chinese culture has allowed him to gain a foothold in mainstream American society. "Moment in Peking" is written in English; Chinese people are writing Chinese stories in English. A mother and children are together, with a light rain outside, indicating that they can both shelter from the rain and appreciate art in this gallery. Art needs respect; art needs heartfelt love. A group of children treat this place like a Disneyland. Curiosity? Perhaps the beauty of the paintings attracted their subconscious actions, the force of aesthetic appreciation. Their hands even touched the paintings, causing them to sway from side to side. Fortunately, the paintings were all framed with a sturdy protective film, preventing them from falling off the white wall despite the considerable force.

The mothers were unmoved; their children's instincts were paramount, completely disregarding art, appreciation, and respect. Countless hands grasped at painting after painting, like clinging to a swing's rope. The museum staff overestimated the paintings' capacity, believing they weren't yet on par with Xu Beihong, Qi Baishi, Zhang Daqian, Titian, Gaucherini, Da Vinci, or Picasso. Their numbness towards art mirrored that of the children at play, an overconfidence in people's respect for art, their supposed refinement, and their cultural cultivation. The paintings here resembled the thousand-year-old murals of the Mogao Grottoes in Dunhuang. The magnificent Dunhuang, its essence looted along with its walls. The Japanese, Americans, British, and Germans, under the guise of protecting the birth of beauty, took away the essence of Chinese culture. The birthplace of Chinese beauty is now scattered in museums around the world. This is how China's soft power of cultural relics is disseminated globally. Chinese scholars, if they want to study their own culture, must obtain the consent of the Americans, British, and Japanese. Western culture has always been happy to adopt foreign ideas; Napoleon brought Khufu from Egypt back to France, and the French brought Venus from ancient Greece to the Louvre. The French not only have Louis XVI, but also Maurice, Rousseau, Romain Rolland, Marcel, Proust, Tendra, Mérimée-Mésat, Dumas fils and Victor Hugo, Tudor, Musset, the Goncourt brothers—French literary giants are all world-class. Western oil paintings overflow with the beauty of love and romance. I enjoy appreciating the beauty of love and romance in paintings. Beauty is a product of desire, hence my fascination with female beauty. Only painting can truly capture the various forms of female beauty; only great paintings can reveal beauty itself. This is the significance of painting for the present, future, and past—an art form that artificial intelligence, cameras, and photographs can never replace. This is the absolute realistic significance of art in the existence of beauty.

Forgetting the allure of Zhao Ji's dreamlike shadow, youth is fleeting, the artist's shadow, the beautiful shadow. The shadow of the artist's soul, a classical Chinese beauty with an oval face, rosy cheeks, neatly styled bangs, two crescent-shaped eyebrows beneath her forehead, a slightly raised and delicate nose, ears faintly visible in the strands of hair under her wig, a hint of pitiful sorrow and bitterness in her slight smile. Perhaps painters are particularly fond of girls from the Republic of China era. A high collar stands around her jade-like neck, as if afraid that the girl's spring-like desires might drift out from her neck, tightly wrapped, concealing the spring that cannot be seen in the light, a regret that cannot reveal even a trace of spring's beauty, a regret that can not reveal the beauty of youth, yet it highlights the girl's graceful and reserved beauty. She is an unmarried girl waiting to bloom, white silk and sky blue complementing each other, embroidered patterns on the shoulders, blue sleeves, she sits quietly on a strange rock. Beside spring, plum blossoms bloom, symbolizing the maiden's aloofness. She plays the flute in spring, her longing for love intense, but the melody is too lofty for her contemplation. Her lover is in the melody, a reflection of her imagination, an unbearable, lonely lament of unrequited love.

The elegant ladies of the Republic of China era, yearning for love and romance, are not so distant from the present day. However, this kind of beauty cannot recapture the soul that art imbues in the paintings of beautiful women. Plum blossoms are in bloom, and Liu Mengmei, in his dreams, finds a beautiful girl beside the plum tree. Amidst the dazzling array of flowers and the irresistible beauty of spring, when painting this portrait of a lady, his heart must have been filled with the joy of a dream. Like a solo melody, the painter's creative inspiration flows like the lyrics of Nalan Xingde. The life depicted in the painting is a testament to the painter's resurrection of lost youth in Jiangnan. Having been away from his hometown for so long, literary giants and novelists often draw inspiration from their hometown's life experiences to create their works.

Suzhou Street, the subway, Suzhou Street—stepping out of the station, there's not a trace of Suzhou's charm. The Haidian of the past is not the Haidian of today. The Yongding River has dried up, the waters of Haidian have vanished, the Old Summer Palace is now just ruins, but Haidian's aquatic ecosystem has recovered. Swans, geese, mandarin ducks, and wild ducks love Haidian. The spirit and culture of thousands of years still exist. Go and explore, refine them. The ancient Suzhou street in the Summer Palace is still the same—small bridges and flowing water. This painting of my hometown, a small town in Jiangnan, tells a story. Perhaps this is for southerners; the charm of Suzhou and Hangzhou shines through the painting. The lines are so simple, yet they vividly capture the beauty of my hometown—small bridges and flowing water—adding to my eternal hometown, instantly bringing it to life in the painting. Entering this painted scene, stepping into a riverside cottage, sitting down—ideally with a beautiful Suzhou woman by your side—enjoying tea and Suzhou and Hangzhou snacks. Shen Fu's *Six Records of a Floating Life* depicts the mundane details of life, filled with endless longing for loved ones lost in old age. Shen Fu was undoubtedly the most eloquent speaker of nostalgia. We all grow old, but our spirits should not grow numb. It's a pity to forget the love and joy of youth, to have nothing left to cherish in memory—that is the true tragedy of life. A pot of tea and a cup of wine are enough!

The sentiments of Jinling (Nanjing), the Eight Beauties of Qinhuai, not only changed Chinese history, but also forever extinguished the spirit of the Qinhuai River in Jinling. Using the Eight Beauties of Qinhuai as a metaphor for the soul of painting, a painting without a soul is unsuccessful. Just as Jinling has lost the Eight Beauties of Qinhuai forever, Jinling has also lost its eternal soul. The painting of one's hometown is like a clear spring flowing through the spiritual and sensory world. Fate, the choice of destiny, may be the inevitable soul of leaving one's homeland. Most people must leave their hometown to seek opportunities in the outside world. Amidst the endless rain and gloom, one can linger in the gallery of a forest park, far from the heavy noise and restlessness. Concentrating one's mind on the ink lines of one's hometown, the feelings for one's hometown, the relatives and friends in one's hometown—childhood playmates, classmates, lovers, classmates, and elderly parents who haven't returned to their hometown for many years. Technology has shortened the distance, but there are still many obstacles, as if living in a virtual world, lacking the realness of life.