Qingshan County East Market, Ink Studio.
The Ink Studio mainly sold brushes, ink, paper, inkstones, and also printed books.
Chen Mu was sitting at the entrance of Ink Studio, on the east side.
A table was placed before him, fully equipped with brushes, ink, paper, and an inkstone.
There was also a piece of white paper hanging in front of the table, on which two figures were drawn: one was himself, writing with a brush, and the other was a passerby seen from the back.
Next to the drawing, there were eight elegant and flowing characters, “Letters written on behalf, portraits painted.”
This was the place where his predecessor had written letters and drawn portraits.
The table, chairs, and stools all came from the Ink Studio behind him, including the very spot he occupied, for which he paid two copper coins in rent per day.
Chen Mu sat behind the desk, idly waiting for business to come his way.
In this era, productivity was low, and the standard of living, as well as education, was poor.
Poor families would at most have someone relay a verbal message; very few would have letters written.
After sitting idly for a day, he had written only three letters.
Writing letters, unlike calligraphy and selling words, could not be charged by the character. Within a single piece of letter paper, the charge was uniformly three copper coins.
“Three letters amount to nine copper coins.”
“Two for Ink Studio, four set aside for rent savings, leaving only three. Barely enough for a day’s meals, and that’s the kind where you don’t get full.”
“Sigh…”
…
Four days later, in the evening, Chen Mu arrived near Anle Square to the north of East Market.
This area was Hook Lane Street, teeming with a great number of brothels and courtesan houses.
As night fell, this place became increasingly lively.
Chen Mu stood in the shadows at the corner of the street, watching an elder by the roadside.
The elder was dressed in a long robe, with a desk set up before him where he was currently engrossed in boldly executing his brushwork with ink.
He had been observing for two days; this old man was a painter, earning a living by painting portraits here.
The subjects of the portraits were mostly the Singers from the brothels along the street.
The exact amount he earned was unclear, but seeing that he was dressed neatly and dined out every day, it couldn’t be too bad.
Stepping out of the corner, Chen Mu slowly approached the old man’s desk, surveyed his paintings for a moment, and pretended to nod in approval.
The elder looked up, sized up Chen Mu for a moment, and let out a chuckle, “What, you want to sell paintings too?”
Chen Mu was taken aback; the old man had seen through his intentions.
As if knowing Chen Mu’s confusion, the elder straightened his back and said with an indifferent smile, “You’ve been watching me for two days now, haven’t you made up your mind yet?”
Chen Mu was startled, feeling exposed though he thought he had hidden his intentions well, he had been discovered long ago.
“Selling paintings is a dead end! Young man, take my advice, go back and study hard,” the elder said with an enigmatic air.
“The waters in this profession are deep; you won’t be able to handle them,” the elder scoffed lightly.
Chen Mu looked puzzled; how deep could the waters be for selling a painting?
“I won’t stop you, just fend for yourself,” the elder said with a grin, bowing his head to continue painting without paying further attention.
…
Ping’an Square
Chen Mu didn’t bother with eating, but plunged into the study on the east side, and started to paint a self-portrait using his reflection in a basin of water.
After finishing the painting, he compared it with his reflection in the mirror. The painting was anything but a likeness of himself, except in that it was self-made.
A gray wall appeared before his eyes.
Written on it: Calligraphy: 1035/10000/Second Rank;
Painting: 3061/10000/First Rank;
Chen Mu thought of the old painter on Hook Lane Street…
“Well, at least there’s a lot of room for improvement.”
Packing up his painting, Chen Mu left the study.
After dumping all his money onto the square table, Chen Mu counted it once more.
Two paths lay before him.
One was to live life following the original owner’s trajectory, slowly saving wealth and looking for possible opportunities for change.
The other was to take a gamble, put all his money into retreat to practice painting, and after reaching a certain standard, go to Hook Lane Street to paint portraits for the Singers, earning more money, first to fill his stomach and then to try out more possibilities.
Whether it was the life of the previous owner or his past life, he would choose the first path. Because it seemed safer and more stable.
Not daring to step out of their comfort zone, not daring to face the unknown pressures, not daring to summon the courage to risk it all.
This is the general state of the common people.
Facts have proven that even seemingly prudent choices do not necessarily ensure stability.
Any slight accident in life can shatter this seemingly solid yet fragile peace.
“I’ve made it this far, what’s there to worry about?” Chen Mu laughed: “Besides, I still have my wall painting proficiency.”
He took his money and went out, buying white wheat to fill his rice jar to the brim.
Then he budgeted carefully, purchasing enough oil, salt, and firewood to last two months.
He meticulously organized the vegetable patch on the east side of his courtyard, planning the daily consumption to last as long as possible.
After preparing everything, he was left with only three copper coins.
But Chen Mu felt a sense of relief both in body and mind.
Once everything was ready, Chen Mu closed his doors and began to diligently practice his painting.
…
The painting skills of this era resembled the ancient splash-ink freehand style, prioritizing spirit over form.
The former occupant’s father was an old scholar who made a living by teaching children.
The former occupant’s painting skills were taught by his father.
Chen Mu did not plan to continue developing according to the previous occupant’s techniques.
He had seen the paintings by an old man on Hook Lane Street, which were incredibly lifelike. Even with proficiency to aid him, Chen Mu was not confident that he could surpass him in a short time.
He planned to carve a different path.
In his previous life, he lived in an era of information overload and had seen numerous paintings.
Rather than freehand painting, Chen Mu planned to create meticulous, lifelike paintings, aiming for a level of realism comparable to a camera!
Picking up a sharpened stick, Chen Mu went to the side of his courtyard’s vegetable patch.
There was a flat area about a meter in diameter, evenly covered with fine soil.
It was good enough for practicing writing with water, but not suitable for painting, so he decided to use the fine soil for practice, which could be reused.
Facing the reflection in the basin of water, Chen Mu used the sharpened stick to carefully outline his image, stroke by stroke.
It took a full half hour just to complete a self-portrait.
Chen Mu couldn’t wait to call up the grey wall.
Writing: 1035/10000/Second Rank;
Painting: 3073/10000/First Rank;
“One portrait, twelve points of proficiency gained. Not bad…” Chen Mu let out a long sigh of relief.
Painting took much more time than practicing calligraphy. Fortunately, the experience gained was also greater.
Flattening the ground and sifting soil to cover it, Chen Mu continued to paint.
This time, however, he only gained nine points of proficiency.
While tidying the fine soil, Chen Mu thought about what he learned from the two painting sessions and began to paint again, intentionally trying to improve.
The proficiency indeed increased significantly, yielding thirteen points.
“It seems I need to be even more engaged!”
After each painting session, Chen Mu would take a brief rest, reflect on what he had learned, and even take notes with pen and paper.
Time passed slowly as he practiced, improved, and practiced again.
Chen Mu’s painting skills were gradually improving as well.
…
One and a half months later, in the study.
Chen Mu, with disheveled hair and untamed beard, held a brush lightly in his hand, sketching on the white paper.
A beautiful, ethereal figure dressed in white took shape under his brush.
The beauty had jet-black long hair, a three-dimensional figure, eyes full of life, and even seemed to be alive.
Chen Mu put down his brush to take a look, then added a seven-character poem next to the portrait.
“Ten miles of flat lake frosted by the sky, inch by inch of black hair mourns the passing years.”
“Single shadow facing the moon longs for the other, envying the mandarin ducks, not the immortals.”
Writing: 1035/10000/Second Rank;
Painting: 72/10000/Second Rank;
“Done!”
