Short, Light, Free
Chapter 88: The Value of Art III

Chapter 88: The Value of Art III

Coincidentally, the factory had to travel to the city for a procurement so I got a free ride.

Upon arriving at the city’s airport, I got myself a ticket to Beijing.

This thing called airplane was really amazing, and I puked in there.

Beijing, night time.

I walked around searching for a place to stay the night, but the hotels were simply too costly.

I ended up sleeping in a park that day.

The next day, I asked around for recommendations and finally found an ancient street that sold chinaware.

Along the alley stood a shop filled with potteries, similar to those I made.

The shop wasn’t big and the owner was elderly.

I went forward to ask, “Do you need a potter?”

The owner shook his head. “I only sell and don’t collect.”

I tried again, “Then where are these potteries from?”

He pointed at himself. “I made them.”

I pointed at some of his works and said, “I can make one that’s twice as nice.”

He got angry and chased me away.

Clenching my teeth, I found a nearby restaurant.

Lodging wasn’t provided and I had one rest day a week.

My salary was 1,300 a month.

I rented a nearby place at 300 a month. It did not even have a toilet.

I kept the old man’s shop in mind and rushed three ceramic pieces out during my off days.

Upon completion, I took them to his shop in hopes that he would dry them for me.

Of course, I wanted him to acknowledge my skills.

There were three customers chatting with him when I arrived.

Not wanting to disturb them, I squatted outside his shop.

After a short while, the three customers exited together.

It was only then that I realized they were together.

As I stood up, they gave me a glance.

One of them tapped on my shoulder, asking, “Did you just buy those? What a strange color!”

“No, they’re not done. I just made them and I’m intending to put them up for sale,” I said with a smile.

He gave me a strange look and asked, “You made those?”

I nodded before entering the shop. “Can I pay you to dry these for me?”

The three customers followed behind me out of curiosity.

The old man waved while looking at the pieces in my hands.

After scrutinizing them, he said thoughtfully, “I remember now. You’re that fellow who came in a few days ago asking if I accept ceramic works.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t do it for you. Please leave.” He pushed my ceramic pieces back into my hands.

The three customers remained quiet.

Helpless, I left in search of another place.

The three customers stopped me.

“Little fellow, you said you were intending to sell the final products. Will you be willing to sell these half-made ones then?”

“They’re not done. How can I sell them?”

“How about this. 500 a piece and I’ll buy all three of them right now. We’ll find someone else to dry them,” one of them proposed.

I fell silent for a short while. I couldn’t speak but I felt my head moving up and down a few times.

The guy smiled before taking 15 bills out of his money pouch and handing them over to me.

I accepted the money and handed over my works.

“What’s your name, little fellow?” the other guy asked.

“Chalk. Why?”

“Would you write your name at the bottom of these pieces? For memory’s sake.”

I nodded before searching for a suitable tool.

One of them handed a fountain pen to me. “Just write your name down.”

“This is expensive, isn’t it?” I looked down at the pen.

“It’s no problem,” one spoke as all three shook their heads.

After some thought, I signed my name as CK.

A guy handed me his name card. “If you produce more works in the future and need them to be dried, just give us a call. We will buy them if they’re good.”

I stood rooted to the ground as they walked away happily.

Within three months, I called them 15 times, selling them five pieces at 500 each, each time.

And every single time, they had me sign my name at the bottom.

Looking at the money in my hands, I found it all hard to believe. They never have even told me what they were doing with my works.

With 30,000 in my pocket, I quit my job and rented a shop right opposite the old man’s.

I bought the necessary tools and called Glasses for the first time.

While he found it unbelievable, he also felt that it was only natural.

I started renovating the shop and displaying my works on the shelves.

I called the customers and shared the happy news with them, but they asked if I had with me ceramic works that hadn’t been dried or colored.

After mumbling to myself a little, I said yes. For the money, it’s always a yes.

They visited once a month and only bought pieces that hadn’t been dried or colored.

Other than them, I had practically no other businesses.

I had a shop of my own but my business was only slightly better than the old man’s.

After the first month, the old man came knocking on my door.

“Why are you doing here? Wanna smash my shop because I stole some of your business?” I asked, rushing over to guard the door.

He shook his head.

“You’re having regrets then? And want me to work with you? Do you think that’s possible? I’m earning more than you right now,” I continued.

He pointed at his own shop. “Go over there and I’ll show you something. It has something to do with you.”

Interested, I followed him to his shop.

I tried guessing his motives but nothing came to mind.

He pointed at the television screen. “You made these, didn’t you?”

It was an auction program.

Big red words: Collector’s items, made by a modern ceramic artist, Chalk. 50,000.

The so-called collector’s items were precisely the three pieces that I had previously brought into the old man’s shop.

The pieces were now completed and of a different color. A man in a white Chinese tunic suit smiled at the screen. “I, Chalk, have inherited valuable skills from my master, Liu Bing, and I’m here today after 15 years of hard work. As you can see from my work, aesthetically speaking, the pieces are lively…”

The old man pointed at the television and said, “They changed the color but I can still recognize that those belong to you. You are indeed more skillful than me and I accepted that, which is why I remember.”

I looked at the man who claimed to be Chalk. He was actually selling off my work as his own.

“What channel is this?”

He answered immediately, “Should be Beijing television station, broadcasting studio.”

To be continued.