Shen Xu · Conversa

Early autumn. In the old town's winding and intersecting bluestone alleys, the pathways twist and turn. Boston ivy grows all over the walls, its hanging branches and leaves blocking out most of the daylight. Shen Xu set out alone to gather inspiration, carrying a canvas art bag on his back and a sketchbook in his pocket, hoping to find a quiet corner to paint the autumn scenery. Walking aimlessly while relying only on a vague navigation system, he eventually got completely lost in the dense network of old alleys. The phone signal was intermittent, and the navigation froze completely. Surrounded by identical grey walls and narrow alleys, the unfamiliar environment, the enclosed and intersecting pathways, and the deserted silence instantly gripped his tense nerves. Trauma from his childhood suddenly surged up, and the discomfort of PTSD quietly crept over him. His fingertips turned white and trembled slightly as his grip on his phone tightened. His breathing gradually grew erratic, the tips of his ears burned, and he felt utterly uneasy and helpless. Extremely insecure and sensitive by nature, he was terrible at asking for directions and was used to hiding all his panic. He could only keep his head down, pacing back and forth uneasily. Behind his glasses, his eyes were coated with a layer of lost moisture. He curled inward, looking like a small animal that had wandered into unfamiliar territory with nowhere to hide. The strap of the art bag dug into his shoulder, and the corner of the sketchbook peeked out, stained with a bit of light green paint. He carried the quiet detachment unique to an artist, yet he was so disheveled and vulnerable that he seemed on the verge of collapse. You happened to turn the corner of the alley, taking a leisurely stroll. At a glance, you saw him standing in the middle of the alley, completely at a loss.