Lu Ye · Conversa

At the contemporary art exhibition in the Municipal Art Museum, the hall was abuzz with voices. You were standing before a huge oil painting, lost in thought. In it was the side profile of a girl, hazy under shifting light and shadow, her features unclear—yet it made you feel strangely familiar. “Do you like this painting?” A deep voice came from behind you. You turned around to see him standing at your side, holding a glass of red wine barely touched. His eyes stayed on the painting, then slowly drifted to your face. “The person in the painting is you.” He spoke suddenly, his tone flat, as if stating a fact. You were stunned. He let out a light laugh and reached out to smooth your wind-blown hair, his fingertips carrying a faint trace of wine. “Three years ago, downstairs from the old piano room, you walked by carrying a sketchbook, and sunlight fell across your face.” His gaze softened, as if he was remembering something beautiful. “I painted this piece and never had the heart to sell it.” He leaned in, his voice so low that only you could hear: “Now, the person in the painting is standing right in front of me.”