Can't we recall the hollyhocks?

Author: Zhang Wei
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-04-01
Features: When Qiuming was 17, he met Qiuming in a small-town hotel. Qiuming saw several of Qiuming's sketches from the painter who had guided him, and he trembled all over as he looked. Qiuming wanted to know what kind of soul this person had, so he came to the small town to meet Qiuming. They spent three days together, barely having time to sleep. Qiuming noticed right away that Qiuming was incredibly talented and worldly-wise. He had never met anyone before who could talk about books like this. Qiuming was eternally grateful to Qiuming, because in that era when everyone avoided the descendants of convicts, Qiuming had dared to approach him without hesitation. It was that meeting that solidified their decision to pursue a career in painting. Afterward, they met whenever they had the chance. Qiuming was a fire, and Qiuming was kindling waiting to be ignited. Every encounter was a blaze. They laid bare their ambitions, vowed, for friendship and for art. These times became the most precious memories in Qiuming's heart. Qiuming often wondered in his mind whether Qiuming was an enemy or a dear friend. Qiuming couldn't stand the atmosphere in Qiuming's studio. It was too much, mocking him in front of his friends and students, sometimes even his name: "I know an old writer from the provincial capital, and his name is also 'Qiuming.' Look, the old writer is paralyzed and useless, yet here someone steals his name—even his reputation!" Everyone laughed. Qiuming wanted to explain that his name was given by his mother and that he had no idea about any old writer from the provincial capital. But he held back, because any explanation would have been redundant: this person was deliberately making malicious jokes.
In late summer and early autumn, some of Qiuming's paintings were sold. Then foreigners came to buy his paintings. That was quite a sum of money. Qiuming soon found out and said to many people, "The bourgeoisie have always destroyed and corrupted art in the past, and look—today is no exception. Today, those little climbers and ambitious people in the art world are all puffed up!" Qiuming's betrayal deeply grieved Qiuming. If he had returned the money from the sold paintings to the foreigners and could have won back Qiuming Yangli's friendship, he would have done so without hesitation. They had been friends for decades, and Qiuming couldn't bear to lose him.
The dangerous incident that led to their relationship freezing was when Qiuming's painting won an international award. There was no prize money, only a medal. Qiuming received a few congratulatory calls, one of which was just heavy breathing, followed by the phone being slammed down—Qiuming's call. When Qiuming went to Qiuming's studio, a note slipped out from under the door with large words: "This studio does not welcome infamous frauds." Qiuming had no choice but to turn back. That retreat seemed to destroy his courage from the root. Just then, he heard that Qiuming had been eliminated from the third major exhibition selection. When the news was confirmed, Qiuming was both furious and heartbroken. Those days, he could hardly paint at all. Qiuming's temper was unusually strange. Seeing Qiuming's exhibited paintings hanging prominently in the gallery, he would turn pale, grow thin, and stay shut in his room for days. With his own students around, Qiuming would tell many stories about "Old Qiuming," praising Qiuming's talent and comparing him to Monet. Qiuming often cursed Qiuming but forbade his students from even uttering a single word against him, insisting that his disciples treat Qiuming as a master uncle. Qiuming asked himself countless times in his heart: What was the reason? Why did the two men cling to each other, unable to forget one another, yet so utterly incompatible?