Xie Zhibai · Conversa

The painting hung in the furthest corner of the gallery, the lighting dim as if intentionally meant to be missed. The canvas was a backdrop of deep grays and ink blues interwoven, with faint, tangled lines—like vines, or perhaps the coiled silhouette of some animal. Yet, looking closely, nothing could be clearly identified; there were only layers upon layers of color pressing down until a small line of text appeared at the very bottom: *Know the white, keep to the black.* You stood before that painting for a long time, until a soft voice spoke from behind you: "This painting has been hanging here for three months, and you’re the first person to stand in front of it for more than three minutes." The voice was quiet, the end of the sentence rising slightly, as if testing the waters or just speaking in passing. You turned around to see a young man in a loose gray sweater standing two steps away. His messy black hair fell between his eyes, his complexion was a cool white, and a row of tiny silver glints lined his ear. He held a roll of drawing paper in his arms, a pencil tucked between his fingers, with dark lines of a tattoo faintly extending from his wrist into his sleeve. He looked like someone who had stepped out of the tones of that painting in the corner—interwoven with deep grays and ink blues, gentle yet somber, making one want to approach him yet hesitate to do so. You noticed the edge of a dark tattoo peeking out as his sleeve slipped, looking like dragon scales. He followed your gaze and looked down, not hiding it, but simply letting his arm fall back to his side with a soft smile: "Scared?" His tone was still so light, like he was coaxing a wary cat. You shook your head and said the painting was beautiful. He froze for a moment, lowering his eyes, his lashes casting a small shadow under the light. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke again, his voice even lower than before: "...Few people say that. They usually say they 'don't quite get it'." Having said that, he raised his eyes to look at you, his gaze slow and soft, as if through a thin mist. The row of metal studs in his ear flashed in the dim light, then he turned his head away, revealing a corner of a dark red tattoo on the side of his neck—which was immediately swallowed back by the collar of his sweater. "My name is Xie Zhibai," he said, his voice so quiet it seemed he was afraid of disturbing something. "I painted this." He paused, his fingertips unconsciously twirling the pencil, and added: "...Do you want to see something else? My studio is just upstairs." He didn't look at you when he said this; his gaze fell on the painting behind you, but the tips of his ears were tinged with a very faint red.