Dual wielding volcanoes, killing through the west

“That’s perfectly normal,” Zhang Tito interjected, hugging his knees. “Have you heard of Van Gogh? He should still be alive at this hour.”

Zhang Renfeng went through the name carefully in his mind, then shook his head and said, "No."

“That’s right. This guy only sold one painting while he was alive,” she said irritably. “That’s the nature of art. It only has value when the person who created it dies and people say what they want.”

Chapter 419: The God of Pure Love is enraged!

One of Zhang Renfeng's fundamental principles is that he responds better to gentle persuasion than force. When someone sincerely begs him, he rarely refuses. Even if the matter itself might bring him some trouble, such as helping Chuck take revenge or helping that woman search for her missing daughter in Fengxi Harbor... he would still do it willingly.

The wooden door opened, and the swirling snow almost filled his ears. Looking at the carriage parked outside the house, which had been painted almost entirely silver-white, Zhang Renfeng couldn't help but swallow hard.

With a wall separating us, we finally have the chance to ask some questions that were previously inconvenient.

"Where's your companion? I saw a middle-aged man, quite strong too." Zhang Renfeng climbed onto the carriage using both hands and feet, only to find it covered in a layer of ice. He slipped and almost fell, cursing, "Damn it... he's just sitting inside watching, not even coming out to help me!"

“They are not my companions. We just happened to be on the invitation list. We took the same bus and split the fare.”

Vivian stood not far from him, speaking softly.

Interestingly, even though the outside temperature had dropped below zero, she was only wearing a thin coat, yet her voice remained perfectly steady and unwavering as she spoke. Every word was clearly delivered to Zhang Renfeng's ears, although there were some words he didn't quite understand and had to guess them from the context, leaving him with a sense of being stuck.

“The man you just mentioned is called Li De. He is different from us; he is not a painter, but a sculptor.”

“Oh, the stonemason… I saw his work.” Among a pile of easels, paints, and palettes, Zhang Renfeng spotted a stone statue—a goddess with blindfolds, holding a sword in one hand and scales in the other. “Isn’t that the thing in front of the courthouse?”

His words revealed little respect for the goddess of justice.

Westerners, accustomed to seeing statues of the Goddess of Justice, naturally wouldn't find anything strange about it. But as an outsider, Zhang Renfeng only found her appearance utterly bizarre: the sword and scales were fine, but how could a goddess who upholds justice punish the guilty when her eyes were covered?

In any case, when dealing with those petty villains, he always glared at them with anger, wanting them to remember his eyes even if they went to hell.

"I don't know much about that old gentleman, but his painting style is typical of the Barbizon School, which is to depict natural scenery. I didn't even mention his name, because he didn't talk much along the way, and only occasionally scribbled a few sketches."

"And then there's Floch, his paintings are, well... how should I put it..."

“You don’t need to say anything, I’ve already seen it.” Zhang Renfeng looked at the painting in front of him, his feelings a complex mix of emotions.

Just like you can tell who made the dish just by tasting it, you can tell at a glance that this thing was drawn by him.

In short, they were women of all shapes and sizes, and none of them were wearing clothes.

"Erotic art can be considered a form of art, right?"

Zhang Renfeng was somewhat disgusted, but still picked up the painting, pulled the palette over, tucked it under his arm, and muttered to himself, "But... are you sure you want to exhibit this type of painting at that conference? I think this kind of thing is best enjoyed on a small scale."

----

At least I did them a favor, and the tense atmosphere gradually eased.

With painting tools at their disposal, these painters, who made a living by their brushes, wasted not a single minute. They first placed the paint near the fire to thaw it. Then they spread out the blank canvas and, like drying jellyfish, gradually let it return to its original soft texture by raising the room temperature.

"Tsk... Damn snow..." Frank frowned as he looked at his erotic masterpiece. The next moment, he crumpled it into a ball without hesitation and threw it aside. "It's completely ruined. Now I have to redraw it!"

“To make it to the conference, we might have to stay up all night painting.” Vivian had already started thawing the frozen palette, and while putting her hands together, she softly pleaded, “We will be very quiet and won’t disturb your rest.”

"I'm not disturbing you. Rather, I'm a little curious right now." Seeing that they had all set up their easels and started mixing their paints, Zhang Renfeng couldn't help but ask in surprise, "I used to have a painting by Wang Zhicheng at home. It's said that the painting technique was passed down from a country called France, and it's specifically for painting people. That painting is similar to yours."

"What the hell?" Frank muttered under his breath, afraid of offending him. "Never heard of such a person before."

“…Those were court painters who painted for the emperor.” Li De, who had been sitting in the corner in silence for a long time, suddenly spoke up, staring straight at Frank, “People of your level don’t take art seriously at all, so naturally you wouldn’t know.”

"What, you think you're qualified to talk to me about art?" Frank looked at him, a mocking smile playing on his lips, his tone full of disdain. "You're just a piece of trash who couldn't make it in the art world, so you turned to stone carving. What do you know about art?"

"Court painter... Screw court painter. Go to any country where nobody has ever seen oil paintings, scribble a couple of paintings, and I can become a court painter too."

“You don’t understand what true art is at all.” Li De put down the stone he was filing and chiseling, looked at him from a distance, and said coldly, “It is something that takes time to build and sculpt, and requires complete dedication to complete a work.”

"And you, this frivolous fellow, only use it as a tool to make money."

"Ha, ha ha ha... Time... That's definitely the funniest joke I've heard all year." Frank wanted to laugh, but he was afraid of aggravating the wound on his face, so he didn't. He just deliberately squeezed his eyes into slits and said sarcastically, "Tell me, when your wife and I are making love in bed, is this how you comfort yourself?"

The moment those words were spoken, the room fell silent.

The assistant, who had been lying on the floor with her legs crossed, looking utterly bored, suddenly sat up, her face full of eager anticipation for gossip.

Li De's expression changed several times. In the firelight, the veins on his forehead bulged. Judging from his expression and eyes, he looked like he wanted to devour him.

The file in his hand made a cracking sound as he gripped it.

Frank, however, didn't seem to care at all. He just shrugged and sneered, "Don't get me wrong, the one who was chiseling the stone... she came to me on her own initiative. She didn't have a single dollar in her pocket, and all she had in her stomach were wild vegetables and potatoes. She didn't want to live like that anymore, it's that simple."

"While you dedicate your time to art, chiseling and filing at a cold stone, I'm enjoying warm wine and beautiful women. Plenty of people—aristocrats, wealthy merchants, and even those seemingly respectable lawyers—want to buy my paintings, you bunch of idiots..."

As he spoke, his attacks expanded, no longer limited to Li De alone. He began to curse the old man painting the landscape, Vivian who was silently observing, and even all the painters in the world who looked down on him.

He seemed to be harboring a burning anger within him.

"So what if it's vulgar? As long as you can make money, that's all that matters! There are plenty of idiots like you out there, spouting all sorts of nonsense about this school of thought and that school of thought, but nobody would pay you five dollars. What are you pretending to be so high and mighty for?"

"Frank, let it go," Vivian advised. "Stop arguing and just finish your painting."

"Ugh... I can't stand it. How can I paint anything good with a bunch of insects like you? Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up." Frank put away his easel, looked around, and complained, "This house... it's fucking awful. It's ugly enough, but it's drafty on all sides. There's not even a quiet place to be found."

……

The old man, who had been engrossed in his painting, suddenly looked up and gave him a deep, piercing look.

This detail was overlooked and no one noticed it.

……

"Wait a minute, aren't you coming with us?" Vivian asked in surprise. "Isn't that a bit inappropriate? It's best not to leave our sight..."

"Mind your own business, you poor wretch. I'm not like you guys, needing to cling to each other to know I'm alive." He turned his head and gave the furious Li De a provocative smile. "One last piece of advice: stop trying to move yourself. The Muse isn't in the stone."

"If she really exists, I'd rather believe she's between a woman's legs."

Chapter 420: Please Bring My Words to the Future

Without saying a word, Reed stood up abruptly after Frank had chosen a room, no longer staying in the lobby.

Heading down the corridor that was exactly opposite to Frank's, he stomped his feet so hard they seemed to shatter the ground, making a loud thud, until he found a room and slammed the door shut.

"boom--!"

After a moment of silence, the atmosphere became somewhat awkward. The three people who had been watching the whole thing seemed to have just witnessed a great show, and they exclaimed how wonderful it was.

Seeing that neither of the parties involved were present, and not wanting to be presumptuous, Zhang Tito couldn't suppress his gossipy nature and quietly asked, "Who are these two...?"

“They’re from the same place. They got into some trouble before, probably like Frank said.” The old man said casually as he re-examined his drawing on the paper, “For that guy, using art as an excuse to pick up women is just commonplace.”

“This type of… painting…” Ren picked up the painting he had thrown away, looked at it critically for a few moments, and frowned. “Does it really have that many viewers?”

“If something can be made so that there are no substitutes in the market, it will naturally become a rare commodity.” Tito also picked up a painting by Frank, unfolded it, glanced at it, and remained calm, as if he had seen it all before. “Well… art concepts are generally still quite conservative these days. Before him, there probably weren’t any painters of this caliber who could produce works like this.”

“I’ve heard that most people who commission articles from Frank do so privately. After all, his work…” Vivian hesitated for a moment, seemingly choosing the right words, before finally saying, “is not the kind that can be displayed publicly.”

"That's how people are; they like to disguise themselves in front of others with etiquette and morality. But in reality, once you take off that suit, they're all the same."

The old man's tone was somewhat cold. "Emperor Nero believed that everyone in this world is inherently lewd and there is no truly virtuous character. Therefore, no matter how great the sins you commit, as long as you are willing to strangely admit 'Your Majesty, I am extremely lewd,' he will spare your life."

“Isn’t he a complete idiot…” Zhang Renfeng couldn’t help but complain. “Is he related to those lunatics in Northern Qi?”

“However, he has a point. If you can’t even afford to eat your fill, what kind of art are you talking about?” Vivian sighed, sounding somewhat self-pitying. “On the other hand, if no one is willing to spend money, it means that this kind of art is a failure.”

“Reed is a stone sculpture, Frank is a erotic painting, and this old man is a landscape.” Zhang Renfeng turned his attention to Vivian. “And you, what do you paint?”

Such a simple question stumped the person involved.

Vivian held her paintbrush, hesitating for a while. "I wouldn't call it a school of art. It's just scribbling on paper. The person who taught me to paint told me that a paintbrush isn't just a paintbrush, but a bridge connecting dreams. But he's a genius. Geniuses are always hard to understand and hard to imitate. I'd be lucky if I could learn even a tenth or twentyth of what he has."

"The abstract art?" Tito asked casually. "Who are they?"

Theonado Dittasdorf.

Hearing that name out of the blue on a snowy night sent a shiver down Zhang Renfeng's spine, a feeling of something haunting him. He was no longer afraid of swords or guns, but this name was like a haunting ghost story from his childhood. Just when you thought you'd forgotten it, it would somehow resurface and re-enter your memory.

“This exhibition is the second one. The last one was two years ago. Back then, I was even poorer than I am now. I was making money by writing letters for people. He came to me to do some business and said he wanted to write a letter to his sister… Then he stared at me for a long time and asked me if I wanted to learn to paint from him.”

When Theodore was mentioned, Vivian's tone softened, as if she were immersed in some warm and fluffy memories.

Zhang Renfeng found it hard to believe that the person who wrote "Nowhere to run" all over his walls had also left such warm memories for others.

"Unfortunately, he only taught me for a few months before returning to his hometown. I asked him if something was wrong that he was in such a hurry to leave, but he wouldn't say. He just kept muttering things like 'My time has come,' which I couldn't understand. He probably had his own schedule to follow. Sigh..."

Vivian sighed, picked up her paintbrush, and sketched the outline of her imagination on the white paper. "Great artists like him are always very busy. I heard he's also a playwright for a theater company. I wish I could reach that level someday."

"When he was instructing you on painting, was his mental state normal?" Zhang Renfeng couldn't help but ask. "Did he say anything strange?"

"Eh?"

Vivian's reaction to the question made him wonder if he and the Theonado she had been discussing were actually the same person.

"That's strange. Aren't all artists like that? Sometimes they're a bit eccentric. If I had to say something, after the last exhibition, I think he said something like that..."

----

Theonado suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at the mountains not far away.

The shattered Dover Manor stood there like a silent tombstone.

"Wait...wait a minute, Mr. Dietersdorf..."

Newly initiated apprentices, to a large extent, have to act as half of their master's personal assistants, a principle that remains unchanged throughout history and across cultures.

Vivian held a large stack of framed paintings, her fingers busy holding several brushes and paints, and a palette tucked under her arm. Only her clothing remained unchanged from two years later; she was still veiled in black gauze, and her soft breathing could be heard.

“I see,” Theonado murmured. “This is the last time.”

“No, Mr. Dietersdorf, the exhibition was a great success!” Vivian finally caught up with him, and after catching her breath, she shook her head and exclaimed, “Everyone is praising your paintings. That one, ‘The Magic of Time,’ was even bought on the spot for a high price, wasn’t it? Selling a painting for several hundred dollars, that’s something not everyone can do!”

"As long as there is a next session, they will definitely invite you again."

“…Nothing is ‘certain,’ Vivian, nothing. By then, I might not be here anymore.” Theonado opened his arms and closed his eyes slightly.

"My whole life has been plagued by these unseen omens."

When he opened his eyes again, he reached out his hand as if to catch the swirling snowflakes.

"Can you do me a favor?"

Vivian was somewhat taken aback by his condition, so she didn't make any overly confident statements, saying only, "As long as it's within my ability, I will do my best."

"Give my regards to Meg. Tell him that everything he did was worthwhile."

“Is Meige… a relative of yours?” Vivian looked troubled. “But I don’t know this person at all.”

“It’s alright, you’ll meet him soon, very soon…” Theonado gave a rare smile, a golden light shining through his gloomy demeanor. “Let’s walk faster.”

It looks like it's going to snow heavily.

Chapter 421: This one is even more heavyweight

"No...no..."

Frank stared at the woman on the drawing paper, his eyes wide open, bloodshot, his expression somewhat ferocious.

A pile of waste paper.

Because of the low temperature, the tiny cuts on my face from the glass quickly froze.

After leaving the crowd, he found a private room at random, filled it with the light of a kerosene lamp, and began to paint alone. However, being away from the crowd did not bring him satisfactory results—the woman in his painting, shrouded in a light veil, seemed to be nothing more than a monotonous body with curves.

eye.

The problem lies with the eyes, the most crucial and fatal spot. It's as if they're looking at something they shouldn't be looking at, making the entire painting's tone and lighting completely discordant.

When even the artist themselves are not satisfied with a work of art, it will undoubtedly appear utterly terrible to others. Frank felt a pang of anxiety. He took out his expensive gold pocket watch, glanced at the time—3:18 AM. The hall was completely silent; there was no sound from anyone outside. Even Vivian, a self-taught artist, had already finished her painting.

"It shouldn't be like this, it shouldn't be like this..." Frank picked up the bottle in distress, as usual, wanting to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

However, this time, the nectar that could relieve his anxiety failed to moisten his tongue.

"Oh, no...no! No no no! F**k!" This was like the last straw that broke the camel's back. Ignoring the injuries on his face, he smashed the bottle against the wall. Not satisfied with that, he clenched his fist and pounded the wall again, his voice a low growl of half-drunk rage.

"You doubt yourself? We've come this far, and you still doubt yourself? What's there to doubt?"

He lowered his voice and angrily rebuked, as if he wanted to break his unruly arm, "Why? Do you think you're Theonado Dietersdorf? He can sell paintings that are half red and half white, and that's art, not you!"

"Unlike others, who have an artist's surname, they should just focus on painting their women well!"

"..."