Countless painting insights appeared in Gu Weijing’s mind; at tis he even thought he knew more about the painting knife than the brush he had used for over a decade.
Even without the endorsent of famous masters, this skill did not have a ti limit like nzel’s painting insights, but rather was like a Knowledge Card infused into his mind.
Even if not used solely for painting with the knife, it was useful as an auxiliary tool for handling special colors in his work.
Gu Weijing wanted to try out this skill simply.
He looked up at the moon faintly visible between the clouds.
An idea ca to his mind.
Gu Weijing picked up the painting knife, white paint, and a small piece of stretched dark canvas.
He casually swiped the knife on the canvas.
A blot appeared on the dark surface, as if stamped by a silver coin dipped in paint—inscrutable, hazy, and moist,
just like the moonlight above.
...
"Xiaogu, wait a minute."
Just as Gu Weijing packed up his things, stored his painting tools, and was about to book a ride ho on his phone, the concierge called out to him.
"Uncle Ah Lai, is there sothing?"
Gu Weijing turned his head to look.
It was the orphanage’s gatekeeper, a la Myanmar man nad Ah Lai.
The first sight of Ah Lai often reminded one of Quasimodo, the bell ringer from the Notre-Da Cathedral.
So Europeans jokingly called Myanmar the land of the pygmies because the average local male height barely reached around 1.6 ters, and many local girls were taller than the boys.
But Uncle Ah Lai was very burly,
near 1.9 ters, with large limbs, dark skin, and sowhat giant-like.
Honestly, the gatekeeper’s features weren’t ugly; it was just that his face had scars from burns, his left foot was slightly disabled, and his left hand was missing a pinky with the ring finger partly gone.
These scars were certainly impossible to acquire in normal life.
Rumor had it he was once a Myanmar army officer; others said he was an anti-drug police officer in Yangon, reportedly appearing in newspapers as a national hero back in the day.
Unfortunately, he was eventually dishonorably discharged from the military.
So said it was drug dealers’ revenge; others said he was caught in factional struggles between warlords and high-ranking governnt officials, and so old comrades in arms were still unfairly lanting his fate.
In Myanmar, society was tumultuous, and political currents ran strongly beneath the surface; anything could happen.
Considering this Good Fortune Orphanage address ca from the military VIP protection group officer, perhaps there was so truth to it.
But Gu Weijing had no interest in exploring people’s pasts.
Life at the orphanage was diverse.
As Gu Weijing frequented this Good Fortune Orphanage more, he discovered it was truly a societal lting pot, with many people having their own stories, be it the kids or volunteers.
There were couples coming to adopt orphans, young sociology students from Yangon University, old aunts who lost sons in nearby factory accidents, beautiful sisters working as escorts yet restless inside, and believers performing acts of kindness daily...
Compared to these, Uncle Ah Lai’s faded hero’s rugged aura wasn’t particularly attention-grabbing.
Moreover, after interacting with him, Gu Weijing realized the gatekeeper Ah Lai wasn’t as fierce inside as he appeared outside; he was a gentle middle-aged man who was simply rather silent.
Rarely did one hear him speak, so it was unclear why he suddenly called him.
"Thank you for today; I seldom see her so happy."
"Jasmine?"
Gu Weijing paused before understanding what Uncle Ah Lai ant.
"My sister."
"Isn’t Jasmine an orphan?"
Theoretically, all children at the Good Fortune Orphanage should be orphans and not have surviving elders or guardians.
"My sister."
Ah Lai emphasized his tone.
Gu Weijing said no more, presuming everyone has their own complicated stories.
"It’s fine; Jasmine is no different from normal children. Playing with her today was a rewarding experience for , too."
Gu Weijing raised his sketches.
"It’s different." Uncle Ah Lai shook his head, seriously repeating, "It’s different."
"I heard you’ve been looking for historical information about this orphanage?"
Gu Weijing nodded.
He and Koizumi Katsuko had started writing their paper.
The article’s main idea wasn’t complex; essentially, it was sumd up in one sentence: "Extra! Great discovery! We’ve found an unknown female Impressionist artist skilled in dark artistry."
But the paper clearly couldn’t be written like that.
The experienced Professor Yajima took days to think and package it, also researching the favorite styles and directions of "Asian Art" reviewers to draft the current paper title.
"The Female Artists Carol Forgotten by Ti: The Color Entanglent and Visual Dinsion of Dark Tone Impressionist Works"
It basically described the sa thing as the previous plain statent.
But speaking plainly, let alone aiming for an A&HCI top journal like "Asian Art," even publishing ninth-rate papers would be challenging.
The sa content, once packaged by Professor Yajima, suddenly seed prestigious, imdiately giving readers the feeling of being impressed.
This was the art of English formal writing.
The composition outline of the paper mainly had two major sections.
The first section focused on identifying the owner of the painting, Carol, and determining the creation ti.
The second section, using "Old Church on a Stormy Day" as a blueprint, compared and summarized historical Impressionist representative painters like Monet and Degas in their handling and use of light color with dark hues.
Actually, the latter part wasn’t difficult.
With Professor Yajima’s guidance, even if it was just a straightforward summary of existing Impressionist works styles, it could be spun into a blooming review paper,
but such works were shallow,
any knowledgeable art professor could write them; however they wanted.
Thus, these contents could only serve as the paper’s fleshy fillers to prevent it from appearing thin.
The real selling point should be the mysterious female artist Carol and "Old Church on a Stormy Day."
Recently, Gu Weijing had been gathering information on Carol.
Nineteenth-century Myanmar had too many foreigners without official passport records, making information difficult to find.
His focus had been this Good Fortune Orphanage building.
Gu Weijing could almost confirm the church in "Old Church on a Stormy Day" was indeed the Good Fortune Orphanage.
He asked the female director to find old photos of the Holy Mother’s Statue destroyed by artillery during the Anglo-Burse War.
The photo was taken in 1890,
thus basically confirming the painting’s creation before 1890.
But stronger evidence was elusive.
Whether the painting was created in 1890, 1880, or 1875—every decade stepped back, even every five years, changed the paper’s value.
Gu Weijing wasn’t a deity; finding this precious painting largely depended on luck. Besides the old photo, he couldn’t find more valuable docunts.
Hearing Uncle Ah Lai’s ntion at this ti,
Gu Weijing felt puzzled.
"Is there sothing you want to tell ?"
"I rember there are so docunts preserved in oiled paper in the church-marked iron cabinet in the underground storage room. The director doesn’t understand English, probably overlooked. I went through it this afternoon; it should be relevant church preaching journals and donation records, possibly useful for you. I found it while accompanying Jasmine."
Uncle Ah Lai pulled a wooden box from the concierge room’s drawer.
Gu Weijing took a look and his spirits instantly lifted.
He recognized what it was—
This was a preaching journal left by the church!
Western churches were like small governnts.
For a long ti, they indeed acted as governnts. Churches had their legal systems, functional departnts, and naturally work reports.
Missionary archives have consistently been good historical materials.
If Carol, the female artist, once was a parish mber or donated to this orphanage, she may have left her na.
"Thank you so much..." Gu Weijing didn’t know what to say.
"No need to thank ; spend more ti playing with Jasmine; she likes you." Uncle Ah Lai waved his hand, leaving without a trace.
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