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Chapter 86: The Value of Art I

I’m Chalk and I’m an artist.

I came from Dashan Village, where not many understood art.

I played with my companions a lot when I was young.

While they were busy playing in the mud, I was making shapes with it and was often made fun of by them.

Of course, I didn’t mind.

When the village’s volunteer teacher mentioned one day that fire can harden clay, I got excited.

After class, I brought my figurine to the teacher’s house.

However, she only frowned upon seeing it.

Nevertheless, I asked happily, “This will crack when dried, Teacher. You said fire can harden it and not leave cracks. Is it true?”

She smiled. “How about you leave your figurine with me and you head home first? I’ll settle it and bring it to you tomorrow.”

“But I’d like to learn,” I said.

Helpless, she responded, “It’s time I give you extra classes. What is this ugly thing?”

“But that’s you,” I replied.

That day, she borrowed a stove from the neighbor’s house.

We remodeled the figurine before getting rid of the surface bubbles and knots.

I looked on as she placed my mud figurine on the stove.

Four hours later, she retrieved it with a stick and placed it outside to cool down before handing it to me.

I was so happy that I couldn’t speak. The teacher smiled and asked, “Do you like it?”

I nodded eagerly before revealing a wide grin.

After some thought, she added, “Come over at night, whenever you’re free, and I’ll teach you more.”

...

The teacher stayed with us for three years, and according to her, our artistic standard had improved from being completely illiterate to that of a junior high school student.

And I was her favorite student.

She gave me many one-to-one classes, teaching me things like perspectives and the golden ratio.

Whenever she returned home for the new year, she would come back with propylene paints.

“These paints can give your work colors, but they can only last 5 years. Remember to keep the lids closed when you’re not using them or they will harden,” she told me kindly.

Before she left, she passed all her materials to me. I cherished them so much that I used them really stingily.

I started making more and more potteries and got better at it.

.....

While other kids were plowing the fields at 14 or 15, I refused to let go of the clay even at 17 years old.

While Mom and Dad nagged at me every day, they don’t really push me out to work.

Because the stuff I make could fetch money.

I’ll have to start from my father.

Each year, some villagers would make a trip to town to engage in trading, and my father happened to be one of the agents.

Dad brought two of my art pieces into the city a few years back and returned with a green banknote. He was beyond happy.

I recognized the 50 dollar bill in spite of the fact that we, as villagers, had no use for it.

Dad shared, “There was a group of tourists in the city. One of them looked at your ceramic art for a long time before asking for the price. Before he could buy it, an argument broke out because someone else was interested in it too. The price kept going higher.”

Later on, I discovered that the tourist group had experienced a tire burst while on the road.

The tour guide quickly brought them into the market in order to pass time, and two tourists happened to catch sight of my ceramic works and got into a fight.

Eventually, Dad sold them off at 50 each, before using a 50 to buy a bunch of things back to the village.

A few years after that incident, Dad stopped following the other villagers to the market.

Instead, he pushed his handcart, containing my ceramic pieces, even further away.

He chose a rest station where tour buses would often stop for tourists to take a break from their long journey.

Dad would then pull his cart around to sell my work, then spend the earnings on supplies.

Initially, employees at the station would chase Dad away, but after some time, upon discovering that he had traveled miles just to get business, they started to sympathize with him.

And Dad started from selling the pieces once a year to once in six months.

Then once a month. I was requested to create 10 pieces each month.

It was easy for me since I enjoyed making things. The only problem I had was that some of my paints were running out. I had no choice but to bring it up to Dad.

After some discussion, he decided to look for some people at the rest station.

He sought help from a bus driver, who actually agreed to bring him some paints.

However, Dad got a shock when the driver pointed to his phone screen to show him the cost of the paints.

Over a hundred for one small tube of paint. The driver laughed and suggested that he used my ceramic pieces as collateral.

Although Dad felt that the driver was being dishonest, he had no choice but to accept his offer.

Every month, he would bring ten ceramic pieces to the rest station and pass five of it to the driver in exchange for five tubes of paint.

Then, he would sell away the other five pieces for cash to buy supplies from the market.

It became a regular routine.

However, as the distance between our village and the rest station was about 17 kilometers away, Dad would only return home late at night.

One day, when he no longer had the energy to carry on, he handed this task over to me.

For the first few times, he would follow me as I pull the cart to the rest station.

After the third time, he completely entrusted the job to me.

During my first trip alone, I met up with the bus driver.

“Where’s that old man?” he asked.

“My father? He can’t do this anymore. I’ll take over from here. Do you still have red paint?”

He entered the resting room while I waited outside.

I noticed him retrieving it from a drawer filled with countless tubes of paint.

That aroused my suspicion. Aren’t these things expensive?

The driver approached me and handed two tubes of red paint over. “2 for 200, or 5 ceramic pieces.”

After sealing the deal, I started chatting with a customer after selling my pieces.

He told me he was an art student and he took a lot of interest in my work.

I quickly asked him about the price of paint tubes.

He fished out his phone and introduced me to an app called Taobao.

After checking out the real price of the paint tubes, I couldn’t control my emotions.

I ran off to give the bus driver a good beating.

A few other employees held me back. It was a big mess at the rest station.

I returned home, crying to Dad and telling him the truth. He got so angry that he picked up a hoe and got ready to go seek revenge.

I stopped him, of course, but he was so upset that he couldn’t sleep that night.

The next day, he took out a small pouch and said to me, “Go to the city, kid. This is not the place for you. The city’s where you should be.”

I opened the pouch and saw ten 100 bills.

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