Chapter 970: The Greatest Work

“I would call it the greatest oil painting of recent years!”

Before Luo Quan’s livestream had ended, such cries appeared on Zhihu.

Probably because her live painting performance was truly shocking.

Everyone watched her sit in a chair and paint almost the entire afternoon, finally producing a self-portrait rivaling a photograph—they had witnessed its birth with their own eyes.

This feeling was far more engaging than simply appreciating an artwork, and the feedback it generated was far more intense.

Yet as Luo Quan’s self-portrait drew increasing attention, criticism soon followed.

The loudest voices questioned forgery, arguing the painting was too realistic to be oil paint.

Put more bluntly: how could a human possibly paint like this with just a brush?

Even if someone on earth truly could paint this well, how could Luo Quan, a singer, possess such skill?

Clearly, she was tricking everyone with a photo—the canvas held a pre-prepared portrait, not an oil painting at all.

Those who said this were likely complete laypeople unfamiliar with art, unaware of a school called hyperrealism.

In truth, painting like Luo Quan is not impossible; some artists go even further, painting foam.

Those foams, composed of thousands of tiny bubbles, contain details beyond ordinary imagination—including light and shadow—so lifelike they stun viewers.

If these people ever saw such paintings, they’d likely scream “fake!” and insist they were photos.

Luo Quan had anticipated this, so after finishing, she filmed a single continuous shot.

The video slowly moved from the front of the painting to its side, letting everyone see the raised and recessed brushstrokes, proving it was an oil painting.

This video was released almost immediately after the accusations began; after watching it, many deleted their earlier comments and admitted they’d been too loud.

This was the first wave of criticism—loud but short-lived.

The second wave of criticism was harder to handle, because many questioned whether such a realistic painting could even be called art.

Most people’s idea of art, especially painting, is either the classical elegance of the Mona Lisa or the abstract incomprehensibility of Picasso.

One is noble, the other avant-garde—both perfectly match people’s notion of art.

But Luo Quan’s piece? No barrier to appreciating it—even children think it’s beautiful.

Yet it lacks the mystery and elitism expected of art; it feels too accessible, indistinguishable from a ten-yuan street sketch.

The difference between art and sketching lies in this: art is a sudden flash of inspiration, an irreplaceable masterpiece.

Sketching, by contrast, can be replicated—even mass-produced.

Luo Quan’s self-portrait is certainly not as cheap as street sketches, so selling for tens or even hundreds of millions times more isn’t surprising.

But no matter the price, it doesn’t mean her work carries the inner depth of true art.

These were all the critics’ arguments—seemingly reasonable, yet revealing a certain group’s contempt and superiority toward the masses.

In the music world, Luo Quan has long worked to erase this superiority, making everyone realize music has technical levels, but no inherent hierarchy of value.

Listening to classical music isn’t nobler than listening to modern pop; everyone has the right to pursue their own tastes.

Thus, her works have always aimed for broad appeal.

She never expected to encounter the same issue upon entering the painting world.

So she wrote a long article in response:

“Many ask: what is art?

Many also deny the legitimacy of art’s subgenres.

When these boundaries blur, art becomes the private possession of a select few.

As if art were born solely for the wealthy elite—those born with golden spoons may lecture freely, while commoners are utterly unworthy to speak of it.

I imagine these ‘naturally noble’ types sneer inwardly when reading such questions: ‘You common folk, what do you know about art?’

Some don’t just think it—they post it publicly to mock.

Whenever challenged, they immediately drag out Paris, Florence, Da Vinci, Picasso—foreign names and places—to flaunt their superiority.

But I want to say: these names and places cannot support your sense of superiority.

Your superiority stems solely from your own low character—nothing else.

Back to the point: what is art?

I believe science proves how great the universe is; art proves how great humanity is.

It is a broad term: anything humanity creates to its utmost extreme can be called art.

To define it merely as elite, niche, and obscure is to reverse cause and effect.

True art must be understandable by the masses—even if understanding comes late, it will never be absent.

In fact, the two Chinese characters for ‘art’ already reveal its meaning.

‘Yi’ means skill; ‘shu’ means mastery. Together, when a skill reaches an extraordinary level of expertise, it becomes art.

Just like my self-portrait today—you say it’s no different from a street sketch? That’s just stating the obvious.

Whether it’s a street sketch or a master’s work, it’s still a drawing; once it reaches a certain level, it can be called art.

As for this hyperrealist painting, anyone with eyes can see its level. If you stubbornly deny it’s art, then fine—I’ll say you’re right.

As for why, I’m sure my regular livestream viewers understand.

That’s all.”

………………

Over the past year, Luo Quan had rarely posted long articles.

The last time she posted one was at her college graduation, when she wrote a piece thanking her school, teachers, classmates, and incidentally, her fans.

This time, she posted it both to defend her work and to see if she could use the moment to shift public perceptions of art.

The government is now pouring massive resources into this field; many art talents will surely emerge soon.

To hasten that future, changing the broader environment is crucial.

If this long article could shift the environment even slightly, it would have fulfilled its purpose—not a waste of ink.

Yet after the article went live, the first to rejoice were her fans, who hadn’t seen Luo Quan call out critics in a long time—especially not with such scholarly, lengthy rebuttals.

Every time they saw such posts, they felt exhilarated—this time was no different:

“Since they’re this far gone, let’s just let them be—they’ve got terminal cancer.”

“Haha, Luo Quan still knows how to roast people without ever cursing.”

“Whether in music or painting, Luo Bao has always wanted to achieve broad appeal, but some people are binary thinkers—they believe elegance and commonness can’t coexist, and even use ‘elegance’ to look down on ‘commonness,’ unaware that such behavior is the truest form of vulgarity.”

“Luo Quan’s line is excellent: science proves how great the universe is; art proves how great humanity is. Artworks are creations of great humans—so if humans are great, why divide them into ‘elegant’ and ‘common’?”

“These people just want to use this chance to display their barren inner worlds and gain attention.”

“Spot on.”

………………

This time, fan comments were far more serious than usual.

Previously, when she posted on Zhihu, comment sections usually devolved into LSP meetings—no seriousness, everyone just meme-joking.

This time, it was harmonious: all serious discussion, all defending her.

For Luo Quan, this was rare—truly, an external enemy unites the internal ranks.

Through Luo Quan’s reasoned defense, the two controversies surrounding the painting titled “Luo Quan” were finally resolved.

After it trended, it first drew worship from netizens.

Most people knew only the most famous oil paintings, with only vague ideas.

But who had ever seen such a realistic oil painting? Once confirmed it wasn’t a photo, they were stunned by Luo Quan’s transcendent technique.

Countless professionals were equally stunned.

Laypeople see the spectacle; experts see the craft—only they knew how impossibly difficult it was to paint this well.

Without decades of relentless practice, the brush tip could never produce the inspiration to fill the canvas.

Without prolonged bursts of inspiration, such a spiritually alive piece could never be created.

When they learned Luo Quan finished it in just five hours, painters’ first reaction was: this is a joke.

Five hours? Even five weeks might not be enough!

How could a human be this incredible? Even if she’s the famed Luo Quan, she can’t defy basic logic—no matter how divine the technique, it must follow rules!

But after watching her livestreamed painting video, all of them were crushed.

At least half of the painters felt they’d wasted their entire lives.

Look at this girl—barely twenty, already a leader in multiple fields; whether music or oil painting, whatever she chooses to show is top-tier.

While they still agonize over how to place a single brushstroke, Luo Quan used a seamless, flowing technique to utterly refute the notion that “slow work yields fine results.”

When they were young, all of them were called geniuses.

But facing Luo Quan, they finally understood how their own peers once felt.

Admiration, envy, longing, and disbelief.

Their own peers in youth may not have felt disbelief—but toward Luo Quan, disbelief was absolutely included.

This girl keeps shattering their understanding; rumors say she can do hyperrealism, and also impressionism.

If true, China’s art textbooks will soon need to add her name—and devote entire chapters to her.

But Luo Quan currently has no awareness of this; she’s busy handling fan demands.

Today she painted a “masterpiece”—worth celebrating—so fans wanted her to sing a fitting new song to heighten the atmosphere.

It sounded like they wanted to set the mood, but really, they just wanted to hear a new song, using this as an excuse.

Yet Luo Quan herself felt a song could indeed serve as a fitting conclusion, and already had a plan in mind.

But she certainly wouldn’t immediately agree to it.

Her mother had often told her that a girl must be reserved; if a boy easily gets what he wants from her, she will never be cherished.

Dangle him, drag him, torment him—make him beg repeatedly before reluctantly agreeing, so he’ll understand how hard-won what he has is, and treasure it deeply.

But at the same time, you must not refuse too utterly—you must leave him some hope.

Because when a man sees no hope, he will cut his losses, and that easily backfires.

So, casting a long line to catch a big fish is an intricate art, and mastering it is extremely difficult.

These words were passed down from her mother’s mother—her grandmother—and the grandmother had inherited them from her own mother.

Her mother treated these as life treasures and passed them on to her; Luo Quan memorized them, yet couldn’t help wanting to complain.

Because when her mother was with her father, she showed not a trace of feminine reserve.

Of course, these things no longer mattered to her mother.

Now that she had become the successor, she had to use them well.

And Luo Quan’s first target for this tactic was her fans.

Although she had already prepared to sing them a new song, she still refused, claiming she had been drawing all day and was too exhausted.

Upon hearing her refusal, the fans were unsatisfied and immediately begged her.

Luo Quan put on an expression of hesitation and reluctance—she didn’t say “I won’t,” but she made it clear she didn’t want to.

The fans saw a glimmer of hope and thought they could win her over, so they pressed harder.

After saying countless kind words in succession, Luo Quan finally nodded, agreeing to bring them the new song “The Greatest Work” tomorrow.

It was Luo Quan who had played hard-to-get, yet after succeeding, the fans still thanked her.

It seemed this trick really worked well—no wonder it was a treasure passed down from the ancestors; it was truly effective.