The weather turned chilly in the blink of an eye; after a few autumn rains, it was already sweater season.
"Benxin Art Museum" is located in an old third-tier city, a rare find with a street brimming with academic atmosphere, and even more unusual is that all the shops are privately owned.
Benxin Art Museum sits between Benxin Library and Benxin Cinema, and judging from the name, it's likely run by the same person.
The owner seems quite capricious; the art museum's opening hours are from 9:00 PM to 9:00 AM the next morning, with an entrance fee of 30 yuan.
This was the first paid art museum the group had ever experienced.
Wei Dong glanced at the opening hours on the museum's door: "I've learned something new; this is the first time I've seen an art museum with a nightclub vibe."
Most people's attention was drawn to the eye-catching signboard at the entrance—this weekend's art exhibition theme: Late Autumn, A Mature Love Affair.
Next to it, smaller print read: The museum's late-night eatery is also open.
Wearing matching pullover sweaters, Mu Yiran and Ke Xun stood together, looking like a couple pursuing a touch of bourgeois romance, having passed the initial tension and tentative steps and ready to "have a mature relationship." Their colors also suited late autumn perfectly—Mu Yiran in a deep camel, Ke Xun in a warm beige.
"The weekend is the day we go to the museum," Zhu Haowen muttered expressionlessly, referring to the art promoter's cunning, "which means we can't see the paintings in advance."
"Unless we contact the art museum owner beforehand," Qin Ci said.
"Actually, we already have. The owner is a young girl named Su Benxin," Mu Yiran revealed, revealing her "research clues" from the past few days.
"What did that girl say?" Ke Xun was hearing this from Mu Yiran for the first time.
Mu Yiran's expression was somewhat helpless: "She said that everyone is welcome to contribute their paintings. This art gallery is based on the principle of free creation. As long as it's suitable, anyone can put their artwork in there and put a price tag on it that they think is appropriate."
"In this way, the art exhibition will have greater mobility. Maybe new works will be hung up at any time on the day of the exhibition." Qin Ci wanted to frown, but when he looked up at the crescent moon in the sky and the boundless clear night sky, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. "Let fate decide, who cares?"
Everyone was infected by Dr. Qin's rare open-minded optimism. Ke Xun even suggested going to the movie theater next door, since there was no point in waiting anyway.
So, the six men went to the small, minimalist movie theater next door. Luo Wei walked at the back. He was not talkative to begin with, and after the departure of the last painting, he became even more taciturn.
The movie tickets were cheap, 15 yuan, and the theater food was not the usual cola and popcorn, but hot coffee, date cake, and small packets of orange sugar.
The movie consisted of three parts, played on a loop, titled *Heaven and Earth*, *Autumn Regret on a Journey*, and *Sissi*.
Wei Dong confessed, "I've only seen the last one; my mom loves it."
"Me too," Ke Xun said, glancing at Mu Yiran, "It's our first time watching a movie together, and we unexpectedly stumbled upon such a unique selection."
"That's great," Mu Yiran smiled, like a spring breeze in late autumn.
Ke Xun eagerly went to buy tickets, occasionally turning back to ask, "They have homemade red bean popsicles here, anyone want some?"
Nobody wanted any; they all thought they were too cold.
So, everyone carried their hot coffees into the theater and chose suitable seats based on their eyesight and preferences—Mu Yiran and Ke Xun sat in the second-to-last row, Luo Wei sat in the front row closest to the door, and the other three sat in the middle of the back row for the most comfortable viewing angle.
There were only these six people in the entire theater, and Wei Dong couldn't help but mutter to himself, "It feels like we've stepped into a painting."
"The number is wrong," Zhu Haowen replied expressionlessly.
Qin Ci chuckled silently, quietly eating his orange-brown candy. The candy, with its licorice and dried tangerine peel flavor, slowly softened in his mouth, evoking memories of childhood.
The theater lights dimmed, and the film's title appeared on the big screen: Baraka.
"Is this the wrong movie? Wasn't the first film called 'Zhi Hu Zhe Ye'?" Wei Dong asked, puzzled.
Zhu Haowen said expressionlessly, "It's 'Heaven and Earth, Black and Yellow'."
"That's about right~ This string of letters is ridiculous. Although my English isn't great, this string of letters shouldn't have anything to do with 'Heaven and Earth, Black and Yellow'." Wei Dong paused, staring at the silent long shot in the film. After a while, still not understanding what was going on, he continued, "Right, they've put on the wrong movie."
"This isn't English, it's ancient Islamic language. Baraka means blessing."
Wei Dong stared blankly at the bewildering film scene, trying to think for a while, but still couldn't understand. "Ancient Islamic language? I didn't realize, Haowen, you know this? But what does blessing have to do with 'Heaven and Earth, Black and Yellow'?"
"I don't understand Islamic language. I saw it in a film review. Once you watch the whole movie, you'll think the translation 'Heaven and Earth, Black and Yellow' is quite fitting."
Wei Dong stared blankly for a while: "I really can't stand this kind of silent film, it's like a documentary."
"This is a documentary."
"…Right." Wei Dong still had many questions, such as why the documentary had no narration, but he swallowed them back—there are too many puzzling things in this world, like painting; could anything be more perplexing and incomprehensible?
In the past, Wei Dong wouldn't have been able to watch a single minute of a film like this, but now he didn't find it boring at all. The ineffable things expressed in the film could perhaps only be truly understood by entering and exiting the painting.
Life and death are impermanent, reincarnation is inevitable.
In the latter half of the film, Zhu Haowen quietly stood up and left silently. Opening the side door, he found the wind chilly, pulled his trench coat hood over his head, put his hands in his pockets, and gently closed the door with his foot.
The waiting area was small and simple, so Zhu Haowen simply walked to the theater entrance, lit a cigarette in the night breeze, and gazed peacefully at the night sky, still expressionless.
A moment later, another figure emerged from the theater—it was Luo Wei.
The two men stood in the night, silent for a long time.
"What kind of scheme do you think 'HuaTui' will set up this time?" Unexpectedly, Luo Wei was the first to speak.
Zhu Haowen looked at the cold stars in the night sky: "None of us can fathom his intentions."
"I thought you were the most willing to guess."
"Faced with this catastrophic game, everyone is racking their brains because everyone values their lives."
"You value your life, but you also enjoy this game."
Zhu Haowen smiled: "Perhaps."
"That's why you might have different opinions from others." Luo Wei's lifeless eyes held a winning desire beyond his nature; this unfortunate 'passive ordeal' seemed more like a 'proactive revenge' for him.
Zhu Haowen's gaze towards Luo Wei was somewhat serious, but he knew that no amount of advice would be heeded by this man. He turned his head, took a few deep drags on his cigarette, and seemingly jokingly changed the subject: "Do you know Yohji Yamamoto?"
Luo Wei clearly hadn't anticipated the other party's 'sudden turn of events,' and after thinking for a moment, said, "He's... Japanese? A mystery writer?"
"A Japanese designer, whose style is called anti-fashion." Zhu Haowen always found the term 'anti-fashion' somewhat absurd—yet it was something the 'fashion world' talked about with great enthusiasm.
As an engineering student, Luo Wei knew nothing about or wasn't interested in fields like design, so he went straight to the point: "What are you trying to say? Will understanding this Japanese person help us with our next step in the painting?"
"Perhaps not at all, or perhaps very much." Zhu Haowen wanted the other party to process his thoughts, so he wasn't in a hurry to reveal the answer.
Clearly, Luo Wei was in a bad mood, a mood that had intensified ever since his girlfriend died in the painting: "I don't think everyone should be calming down and 'watching the movie' right now. The art museum is right in front of us, and the painting we need to get into is inside. If we want to get in, we have a hundred ways to do it! There's no need to wait until 9 PM on the weekend!"
Zhu Haowen wasn't in a hurry, looking at Luo Wei: "I thought we were still talking about Yohji Yamamoto."
Luo Wei clenched his fist: "What help is this Japanese man to us?"
"He might help us understand ourselves." Zhu Haowen's tone remained calm, but his eyes were fixed on Luo Wei. "I never believe that we enter the world of art for others. I mean, any other person."
Luo Wei's furrowed brows didn't relax, but his tone softened slightly: "Self, that's too broad. Sometimes the definition of self can encompass others, even the world."
Zhu Haowen smiled slightly, not continuing on that topic, but saying calmly, "Let's go back to Yohji Yamamoto. He once said something like this— 'You can't see yourself. You only understand 'yourself' when you collide with something powerful and bounce back. So, you collide with something strong, something terrifying, something of a very high standard, and then you know what 'yourself' is. That's what self is.'"
Luo Wei remained silent for a long time, and Zhu Haowen said nothing more.
Under the vast darkness of night, two men stood at the entrance of an old cinema in the old town, like a sketch that had been left unfinished for a long time, the ink faded to a pale yellow, or like a tea stain accidentally spilled one night, indelible and unerasable, left bearing its mark under the glass for many years.
The night swallowed everything, but Zhu Haowen still heard the other man say, "Thank you."