Chapter 33: Mendeleev’s Epiphany (Part I)

Mendeleev, originally from Russia, was one of the most celebrated painters of his time. Having endured the ravages of war and the bitterness of displacement, his early works were renowned for their incisive portrayal of the common person. Initially, he championed a style rooted in social critique, lashing out at the fangs of capitalism and exposing the contradictions between the masses and their leaders, as well as the insidious nature of the wealthy. His most famous works, such as "The Moneylender" and "The Corporation," were internationally acclaimed masterpieces.

As he aged and began to indulge in the fruits of fame and fortune, Mendeleev became infatuated with a free-spirited romanticism, filled with an unbridled passion for life. Yet, after that shift, he found himself constrained by the realities of his own comfort; he felt as though he had lost his soul. Every time he picked up his brush, he found himself unable to recapture the essence of his former work.

However, this did not affect his reputation. Whatever he painted, people bought; whatever he produced, people fawned over. He was constantly surrounded by sycophants. At some point, he could no longer remember when he had stopped hating the capitalism he once despised and begun to accept it. With each successful exhibition, even his most careless, closed-eyed scribbles were hailed as masterpieces worth millions, sometimes tens of millions. Any flaw was interpreted by critics as a deliberate, subtle void, and upon closer inspection, even those flaws seemed to possess a certain profound logic.

Art, after all, was as the Chinese saying goes: "A true masterpiece is born of heaven, captured only by the gifted hand." In those moments, he began to drift into a state of believing he had reached the pinnacle of his craft—a state the Chinese might call "the technique of having no technique."

For years, he held an annual exhibition to showcase his new works. Those "treasures" were often spoken for before the shows even began, and countless fanatical admirers looked upon him as if he were a messiah. Standing in the spotlight, under the glare of the cameras, he sometimes wondered if, centuries from now, the word "great" would be the epitaph etched upon his tombstone.

This time, he had come to China for another exhibition, bringing with him a few fresh canvases alongside his award-winning pieces from the past. Even before his arrival, the news had dominated the headlines of the art world. Numerous Chinese artists, having heard the news, practically wore down the thresholds of his agents' offices. They arrived with fortunes in hand, fighting desperately for the chance to purchase a single painting.

Today, at the exhibition, the crowd surged. Mendeleev, wearing his signature cap as he often did, slipped into the venue unnoticed. He enjoyed this. He heard the waves of praise and gasps of wonder, and saw fans snapping photos with their cameras. His agent was surrounded in the distance, besieged by people desperate to acquire a piece for their private collections.

Just as he reached his painting *Spring*, he heard a commotion.

"A flaw? What are you talking about?"

"You spoke so much earlier, I thought you were a professional, but I see you don't understand Mendeleev at all."

"Do you not know who Mendeleev is? He is a witness to the changing times. Every one of his paintings has a profound meaning. Friend, you really need to study art more."

"Tell me, do you even know how many techniques Mendeleev used in this piece? Every brushstroke is a stroke of genius. Professor Zhang from the Academy of Fine Arts talks about it every day; it’s become an obsession for him to own one of his works."

"Which school did you graduate from, anyway?"

"There are far too many people like you every year, don't you see?"

He saw a crowd gathered around a young man with a buzz cut. The young man seemed to have said something derogatory about the artwork.

He suddenly grew interested and instinctively leaned in. For years, he had been pampered, standing high on a pedestal, never having heard a word of criticism. Pushing through the crowd, he saw the young man, who, under the gaze of everyone, remained calm and composed, a faint, peaceful smile on his lips.

"I do not deny that Mr. Mendeleev's technique has reached its peak," the young man said. "And I certainly do not deny that to the average eye, this is a painting worth collecting; it even conveys the themes you all wish to see."

"However, starting with *Spring*—while *Spring* truly had a soul, filled with the freedom and longing of romanticism—this piece lacks a 'heart.' Look here at the brushwork; you can clearly feel a sense of haste."

"From *Spring* to this piece, *Streetlamp*—I know what you want to say. *Streetlamp* is meant to express the dimness before the dawn, but the lines here are already starting to mirror *Spring*, and I cannot see a soul in this painting. It is as if it has become a walking corpse..."

Mendeleev froze. He understood Chinese. After the war ended, he had lived in China for a time and interacted with many people. At first, hearing this fellow pointing fingers, he felt a surge of discomfort. *My work? You dare to critique it? Do you even understand art?*

But as he listened longer, he stared intently at the painting *Streetlamp*. His pupils contracted. For some reason, he felt as if he had been jolted awake. He opened his mouth, then stared fixedly at the canvas.

Not long after, the young man was met with a chorus of rebuttals and eventually escorted out by security. The security guards were long accustomed to this; in such exhibitions, there were always those who sought to make a name for themselves by being deliberately provocative.

But the words "walking corpse" had pierced Mendeleev’s heart. In that moment, he was awakened. He looked back at every day of his life since he had become famous. He had once lived at the bottom of society, feeling the injustice of the world, his creative desire burning with such intensity that he produced many classics. Later, he achieved fame! He became intoxicated by the flattery, convinced he had reached the summit.

When he painted *Streetlamp*, he had finished it in ten minutes. He hadn't given the theme a second thought because others would provide the theme for him. The lines were rough—a roughness that, to the man he was long ago, would have been unacceptable. But perhaps this was a "beauty in imperfection"? Perhaps it was a new school of thought, a "Mendeleev" style? In any case, art scholars would always help him cover it up; it would never affect his reputation.

Yet, in this moment, his heart felt as though it had been crushed. *I have betrayed my faith. I have indulged in the operations of capital and enjoyed the fame and fortune it brought me. I have become a walking corpse without a soul.*

"What are you doing?"

Under the stunned gaze of everyone, he pushed through the crowd, rushed to *Streetlamp*, and violently tore the canvas to shreds.

As the security guards panicked and others rushed forward, he threw his cap aside and bolted out of the exhibition like a madman.

"Huff!"

Zhang Yang, having been kicked out, did not feel humiliated. He simply straightened his clothes and took one last look at the exhibition. He only knew a little about art, but in his previous life, as long as he had money, he attended a concert or an art exhibition every week. Many said that artistic cultivation could make a person’s demeanor more refined. Zhang Yang had originally pursued this for that very purpose; a refined temperament made it easier to win people over, especially when negotiating big deals.

Coming to this world, the gods had thrown him into "hell mode." He had no money for cultivation; he could only think of filling his stomach. Later, *Desert Bicycle* made money, and Zhang Yang figured his company needed an elegant, representative piece of art, as well as a professional logo. But truly famous paintings cost tens of millions! How could he afford that?

By chance, he saw the news about Mendeleev. An idea suddenly popped into his mind: *What if Mendeleev could paint a piece for him for free?*

Outside the exhibition, the crowd bustled. Zhang Yang recalled Mendeleev's life story, pondering his personality and psychology, carefully analyzing the changes in his mental state throughout his life. He figured Mendeleev would surely be hiding in the crowd, soaking up the adulation of his believers. After all, that was what he had done at several other exhibitions he’d researched online.

But now, Zhang Yang was bewildered. *Did I guess wrong? Is Mendeleev not in the crowd? Does he not have that kind of artistic ego? This shouldn't be. From his early works, I felt he was a man who pursued the pinnacle of art, later blinded by vanity and capital... If I approached him from the opposite direction, I might be able to wake him up... My analysis was solid! Why didn't it go as I planned?*

*Forget it, time to go back. It's normal to analyze things wrong sometimes.*

Just as Zhang Yang shook his head and prepared to leave, he suddenly heard a voice behind him.

"Wait! Hello..."

He was instantly overjoyed, a smile threatening to break across his face. But as he turned around, he quickly adjusted his expression to one of profound contemplation and despair, as if he were mourning the decline of art and the loneliness of being misunderstood.

"What is it? Are you... Mr. Mendeleev?"