r18novel Chapter 141 Colors and "Humanity" in the Studio
Chapter 141 Colors and "Humanity" in the Studio
Chapter 141: Colors and "Humanity" in the Studio
Since the Harrison family's party, Beverly Hills social circles knew that a charming Eastern gentleman had moved into the North Shore Laurel Estate. Invitations poured in like snowflakes, many from opportunists eager to find out Lin Yan's background. Lin Yan initially attended a couple of dinners out of politeness. The exquisite gifts he had Charles prepare were quite well-received: for the old banker Jason, he gave a fine Duan inkstone, paired with a Qing Dynasty inkstick; for Mrs. Margaret, a Suzhou embroidery fan, its butterfly and flower pattern gleaming delicately under the lamplight.
But the constant invitations quickly wore off the peace and quiet of this cultivator. That morning, Lin Yan was thinking of going for a stroll in the city to escape his "enthusiastic" neighbors when the doorbell rang at an inopportune moment. Emily stood outside, carrying an elegant fruit basket. Her light golden curls shimmered softly in the sunlight, and her deep blue eyes were filled with concern: "I heard you weren't feeling well, so my mother asked me to bring some fresh fruit."
Lin Yan was momentarily speechless. He was dressed in a sharp light-colored linen suit, clearly dressed for going out. Emily's eyes flashed with a sly light, and the corners of her lips curled up slightly: "It seems Mr. Lin has a condition that can only be cured by shopping? I happen to be going to the city to buy art supplies, how about we come along?"
Lin Yan, caught red-handed, could only smile wryly and agree.
The bustling downtown was a stark contrast to the tranquility of Beverly Hills. As the two strolled to a street corner outside an art gallery, they witnessed two police officers roughly shoving a Latino painter. "You damn Mexican, get back to your East Los Angeles!" The taller officer kicked over an easel, scattering paintings all over the floor.
Lin Yan initially intended to walk around, but his gaze stopped when it swept over the paintings. Carlos's paintings were full of wild vitality: in the boldly colored street scenes, the children dancing in the slums had bright eyes; the farmers under the sunset, though tired, stood ramrod straight. What moved Lin Yan the most was a painting titled "The Immigrant's Mother," in which a woman holding a baby stood on the border, her eyes both weary and full of hope, reminding Lin Yan of the new immigrants chasing the American Dream he had seen on Wall Street in his previous life.
"What are you looking at, you yellow-skinned kid?" The short policeman noticed Lin Yan's gaze and said in an unfriendly tone.
"Officer," Lin Yan stepped forward, his tone calm yet carrying an undeniable authority, "this gentleman appears to be simply trying to make a living."
The tall policeman glared at him fiercely: "Another busybody. Do you know these illegal vendors are affecting the city's appearance?"
Emily quickly stepped forward and took a business card from her handbag: "I'm Emily Harrison, the art director at Harrison Productions. This painter is a potential collaborator. If you have any questions, please contact my lawyer directly."
The two officers exchanged a glance—the Harrison surname carried weight in Los Angeles. Finally, they grumbled as they cleaned up the mess, not forgetting to threaten Carlos before leaving: "Don't let us see you again!"
Carlos wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and stubbornly raised his head: "I don't need charity."
"This isn't charity." Lin Yan picked up a sunflower painting, his gaze sincere. "I've seen many works at the Chelsea Gallery in New York, and your paintings have more vitality than those lifeless decorative paintings."
Carlos eyed the well-dressed Asian man warily: "You rich people living in Beverly Hills always try to solve everything with money."
Lin Yan didn't seem to mind and smiled, "I happen to need a few paintings for my living room. How about this, you paint a few portraits for me first? I can pay a deposit in advance."
Seeing Carlos still hesitating, Lin Yan added, "My butler, cook, and this mischievous little dog," he gestured to Xiao Qi, who was sniffing the easel, "all need portraits. How about you help out?"
And so, Carlos reluctantly accepted the commission. During his first few visits to Laurel Manor to paint, he was always in a hurry, refusing to dine with Lin Yan and rarely speaking to him. But gradually, he discovered that this Eastern gentleman was different from other wealthy men—Lin Yan never interfered, but quietly read books in a corner of his studio, and his occasional artistic insights always hit the nail on the head.
One rainy day, Carlos finally let his guard down. While mixing paints, he said, "My father was a fruit picker in an orchard. He always said that people like us don't deserve to be artists." His brushstrokes splashed vibrant colors across the canvas. "But you see," he continued, "these colors flow in our blood."
Lin Yan seemed lost in thought. He recalled the dog-eat-dog world of Wall Street in his past life, and the rule of the strong ruling the cultivation world, but for the first time, he truly understood: every life, regardless of its origin, has the right to pursue what one desires. The secular class divisions based on money and status appear so pale in the face of this pure pursuit. The richness of one's inner self is the sole criterion for classifying humanity; those who are rich in spirit are the truly wealthy.
When Carlos finished his stunning "The Reaper in the Rain," Lin Yan gazed at it for a long time, then whispered, "There's a message in your painting..."
"The Way?" Carlos asked, puzzled.
"In other words, you've captured the most essential power of life." This was Lin Yan's first explanation of his cultivation philosophy to ordinary people. "Art and cultivation, like everything else, are about seeking truth."
During this time, Emily's visits became more and more frequent. This girl in her early twenties possessed the intelligence of a Berkeley graduate and the elegance unique to Hollywood heiresses. She always brought newly acquired books on Eastern philosophy and would pester Lin Yan to discuss the allegory of Zhuangzi's butterfly dream on the terrace.
One evening at sunset, Emily softly recited the line from the Book of Songs, "Now that I have seen my beloved, how can I not be happy?" Her eyes shone with the shyness and anticipation unique to young girls. Lin Yan, having lived two lives, was well aware of a young girl's feelings. However, he had no romantic feelings for Emily and could only pretend to be oblivious, steer the conversation towards Zen koans.
Little Seven, however, seemed to like Emily quite a bit. Every time she saw Emily, she would wag her tail happily, and once she even brought Lin Yan's folding fan to please her. Watching this scene, Lin Yan felt a pang of helplessness—he cherished Emily as a friend, but he didn't know how to properly handle this feeling that went beyond friendship, and in the end, he could only choose to temporarily escape.
Trouble finally erupted on the opening day of an art exhibition. Richard, the art critic who had previously embarrassed himself, publicly mocked Carlos's paintings as "slum graffiti." This time, Lin Yan didn't resort to cultivation techniques; instead, he slowly stepped forward:
"Mr. Richard, I read your praise of Pollock's 'Number 31' in *Art Review* last year, saying it 'broke the class shackles of art.'" Lin Yan's voice was clear and calm. "Then may I ask, why is it that the same artistic concept becomes a masterpiece when it comes from a prestigious family, but becomes graffiti when it comes from an immigrant?"
He meticulously analyzed the symbolic meanings in Carlos's paintings, discussing everything from the revolutionary tradition of Mexican murals to the social plight of contemporary immigrants, and finally pointed out incisively: "The real prejudice is wearing tinted glasses while thinking oneself clear-headed."
After a brief silence, the entire hall erupted in enthusiastic applause. Carlos, his eyes red-rimmed, grasped Lin Yan's hand: "For the first time, you've made me feel treated as an equal."
As Emily walked Lin Yan home in the night, she whispered, "The way you help your friends is always so...unique." Moonlight shone on her slightly flushed cheeks, her eyes filled with a complex and unreadable expression.
Lin Yan stood in front of the manor gate, holding the sleeping Xiao Qi in his arms, watching Emily's departing figure. He suddenly realized that, without knowing when, he had become deeply involved in the human relationships and social interactions of this era and this city. Cultivators should be detached from worldly affairs, but in the joys and sorrows of these mortals, he had touched upon a Daoist essence richer than mere solitary cultivation.