Chapter 50: The Missing Piece

“Oh, isn’t that Yuxing!”
On a bench by the path in the little garden sat a middle-aged man, hunched over, patiently brushing his canvas stroke by stroke, rendering it with utmost care. When he saw Yuxing approaching, he glanced up, set down his brush, broke into a broad smile, and called out in greeting.
“Uncle Oda, it’s been a while.”
Yuxing stepped forward to say hello.
The man before him had a scruffy beard and specks of paint—who knows how they’d gotten there—dotting his face. His clothing was so ragged one could barely guess the season; though it was early summer, he still wore a high-necked undershirt and a thick leather jacket over it, making Yuxing feel hot just looking at him.
On top of that, he wore an apron whose original color could no longer be discerned, leading one to wonder if he wiped his brushes directly on it.
Yuxing understood, though. Back when he was learning to paint, he would always wear his most tattered clothes to the studio—ones he wouldn’t mind ruining with paint.
“Yuxing, have you been getting home late from work? I haven’t seen you in ages—overtime?”
“…I’ve been a bit busy lately, yes.”
Yuxing thought back over the past few days, then remembered the hundreds of megabytes of study materials still waiting to be digested. He could only force a smile and nod.
Uncle Oda laughed heartily. “You’re still young, don’t always wear such a long face.”
After laughing, he picked up his brush, dabbed it in Prussian blue, mixed it with white, and raised his hand to continue painting the sky.
It was natural for Yuxing to sit beside Uncle Oda and study the canvas.
If he left work on time and came home, he would always find this self-proclaimed painter named Oda right here, on this very bench.
At first, they had nothing to do with each other. But Yuxing passed here every day, and day after day, the painter was always there, working at his easel, in the same spot, at the same angle. Curiosity eventually drew Yuxing to strike up a conversation with this peculiar man who kept painting the same scene.
“…Still working on this painting?”
Yuxing glanced at the view before them. Oda was painting exactly what lay ahead, though judging by the angle of the shadows, it was a morning scene. Now, however, the landscape was bathed in golden sunset.
“Yes... painting is a subtle thing.”
“I’ve been working on this same canvas. The colors that seemed right yesterday feel all wrong today, so I’ve repainted it again and again—too many times to count…”
Yuxing studied the painting: a tranquil garden, children at play, old folks strolling, and a family of three lying on the grass, gazing at the sky.
“But something always feels off, so I can’t put down my brush. I keep painting and repainting, over and over, searching for an answer…”
Oda sighed helplessly, then looked at Yuxing, who was leaning on his hand, eyes fixed on the painting, thoughtful and contemplative. Oda nudged him with his paint-free elbow. “Well, any suggestions?”
Yuxing started from his reverie, let his hand fall, and smiled. “Uncle Oda, you’re the professional here. I’m just an amateur—what advice could I possibly offer…”
Oda chuckled at that, but when he glanced between the canvas and the scenery, he grew even more dissatisfied. Such beauty lay before his eyes, yet on the canvas… something was missing.
Yuxing’s gaze returned to the painting, and he studied it in silence for a while.
“Uncle Oda, do you know about a classic psychological test called ‘House-Tree-Person’? The subject is asked to draw a house, a tree, and a person on a blank sheet of paper, and then the analyst interprets the composition and depiction of these elements to reveal aspects of the person’s psyche.”
Oda nodded—he’d heard of this test, perhaps in a newspaper or magazine. It was quite famous.
Yuxing continued, “In other words, painting is an expression of one’s mind—or, perhaps, emotion.”
“If all you want is to record a scene, why not use a camera? No matter how skilled a painter, they can never match the realism of a photograph.”
“Maybe, long ago, painting was indeed for recording what one saw. But now, with digital photography so advanced, the meaning of painting… perhaps lies in expressing the artist’s own feelings.”
As he spoke, Yuxing bent closer, his fingers gliding over the textured strokes on the canvas.
“When you painted this stroke, Uncle Oda, what were you thinking? What did you feel in that moment?”
Yuxing drew back his hand and turned to look at Oda.
“But I… don’t feel anything at all.”
Oda’s only response was a look of utter bewilderment.
…
…
Oda staggered back to his studio, carrying his paintbox.
It was an empty warehouse, never successfully rented out. Oda had tracked down the owner, hoping to rent it as a studio, and the owner, who’d once dreamed of being a young artist himself, let Oda have it for a pittance. Sometimes he’d drop by to browse, buying a landscape or two, or simply deducting the rent.
In truth, he was almost funding Oda’s pursuit of art.
Oda knew his technique was solid; his paintings had sold as decorative pieces and found buyers. Yet when he looked at them, they always felt hollow. Each one, to his eyes, was devoid of warmth.
Today, Yuxing’s words had struck home.
There was no emotional expression in these works.
They were mere records of scenery, of people.
But the landscapes and figures on the canvas, in the end, were just lifeless objects. If even the artist’s own feelings were absent, then all that remained was a display of technique—a commodity, nothing more. And yet, such commodities sold especially well.
My feelings, is it…
Stepping over the clutter at the entrance, Oda entered the dim studio.
“You’re back… Uncle Oda.”
The sudden voice from the darkness made Oda nearly lose his footing. He stumbled back, catching himself, and even as terror gripped him, some vestige of battle instinct made him quickly scan his surroundings.
The voice had come from… a human-sized shadow.
What made Oda’s blood run cold was that the figure stood silently beside the central pedestal, one hand resting on his “treasure,” stroking it lightly.