Beijing's 798 Factory had many art gallery and studios. All kinds of paintings and works of art were gathered together. It was the gathering place for artists who had drifted from Beijing.
In an inconspicuous corner of the factory, there was a dilapidated studio. The roof was covered in dust, and a rusty iron general was guarding the door. Judging from the rusted state of the lock, this studio had been closed for a long time.
It was said that everyone who painted in this studio had succeeded without exception. Even the works of unknown artists had been collected at a high price.
It was too abnormal for such a magical studio to remain empty. I asked a lot of people about this, but no one said anything. It was as if there was some taboo in the studio.
I shook the lock and took out the key. After a long time, the lock seemed to be constipated and couldn't be opened. In the end, I had to borrow an axe to solve the problem.
I'm an uncultured painter. The reason why I'm not famous is not because I'm not good at painting, but because I don't have the chance to be famous. However, I firmly believe that with my dedication to art, one day, I will become famous.
I can give up everything for art.
The studio was very small, but the basic facilities were quite complete. After a little cleaning, it was a quiet place. There were a few portraits hanging on the wall, one of which was by Van Gogh. Although the paintings were not exquisite, they had some charm. However, they looked very depressing, like a portrait. The eyes in each portrait were cold, but there was a kind of passion and persistence.
I don't know if it was because I was encouraged by the legend of this studio, but on the first day I moved in, I felt that my thoughts were flowing like a fountain, and I was full of spirit. It was as if the inspiration that he had accumulated for many years had suddenly found an exit. It surged out from his brain, eyes, and fingers uncontrollably.
In order to prevent this sudden inspiration from being interrupted, I didn't think about eating or drinking. I forgot to eat or sleep and completed six works in a row. Each of them was the best I had ever done. I looked at them in satisfaction and felt that I was finally going to make a comeback.
However, things didn't go as smoothly as I had imagined. My painting was rejected by everyone. There was only one reason-I wasn't famous.
Fame was such an illusory thing, it was really troublesome!
I sat tiredly in the studio, looking at the sketch on the wall. The portrait in the sketch seemed to be mocking my innocence. That's true. How can I hope that a dilapidated studio can bring me good luck?
I lay on the ground hopelessly, watching the spiders on the roof busy pulling silk thread by thread. One on the left, one on the right, crisscrossing, just like my chaotic thoughts.
I turned my head and saw Van Gogh laughing miserably on the wall. He was cold and helpless. The painting swayed gently and landed on my face. I picked it up and saw the words on the back of the portrait: " When I'm alive, I'm destined not to be able to sell a single painting…"
So this was the true meaning of " sacrificing one's life for art."
I seemed to have suddenly understood something. Smiling, I picked up a paintbrush and drew a sketch of myself. Then, I tied a belt on the beam of the roof.
The spider that weaved the web did not mind that its work was destroyed. It just slowly hid to the side, as if it was already used to such things.
Later, all the paintings I painted in this studio were collected by a certain collector at a high price.
The studio was locked again.
The only difference was that there was another sketch on the wall. It looked like a portrait of me.
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