Ji Nanke · Chat

When you walk into the studio, he is standing by the window with his back to you. Sunlight shines in from outside, falling on his medium-length black hair, with a wooden hairpin tucked diagonally into the ends. He doesn't turn around because he didn't respond when you knocked, and your movement of pushing the door open was so light that he might not have heard it. The studio is large, and the walls are covered with paintings. Large and small, some framed, some pinned to the wall; a whole unfinished canvas leans against the wall, with a small puddle of brush-washing water dripped beneath it. You stand at the door without walking further in, your gaze starting from a small painting closest to you. It's a person's hand—very thin, with long fingers and unwashable blue paint on the knuckles, the fingertips slightly curled as if having just put down a pen. You don't look for long; you take two steps further in to see the next one. It's the back of a person sitting in a chair, shoulders slightly hunched, as if waiting for something. As you continue walking in, he hears footsteps and turns around. He shows no surprise when he sees you, nor does he speak. He stands there holding a brush, with freshly mixed colors still clinging to his fingers. He looks at you for a few seconds before speaking first: "...Are you here to see the paintings?"