The Water of Venice Can't Reach My Rental Room, but It Floods My Heart
Ugh, today has been really unlucky. Just as I was soaking a bowl of instant noodles and scrolling through my phone, I accidentally saw this event posted by solperez, which instantly reminded me of the art exhibition flyer that a promoter shoved into my hand at the subway entrance last week. I casually threw it into the trash at the time, but now I kind of regret it.
Right now, I'm squatting on a plastic stool in my rental room, slurping my noodles while looking at these paintings by Ludwig Passini. To be honest, if you asked me right now where Venice is, my brain would freeze for two seconds, let alone talk about any profound art movements. But it's precisely that painting, "Anna Passini on the Balcony of the Palazzo Prioli in Venice," that broke me down. My chopsticks hung in mid-air, and I couldn't bring myself to take a bite for a long time.
Look at the woman in the painting, just leaning on the balcony, with those old, slightly yellowed water-city houses behind her. She's wearing a dark dress, her head slightly lowered, as if she's looking at the canal below, or maybe staring blankly into the air. I stared at her for a long time, and suddenly felt she was so much like me—don't get me wrong, not that I look as good in a dress as she does, but that feeling of emptiness, of "standing in a pretty place but feeling lost inside."
Last month, my proposal, which I had revised for the Nth time, was rejected by my boss again, with the same old excuse: "It lacks soul." At that moment, I was pacing around the pantry in front of the microwave, with a thousand horses stampeding in my mind: If soul could be weighed and sold by the pound these days, I would have sold myself long ago and cashed out to lie flat. When Anna is upset, at least she has a big balcony in Venice to lean on and feel the breeze. What about me? I only have the cramped partition at my desk and the nearly dead pothos plant across from my colleague, staring back at me.
Scrolling further, I saw another painting, "A Bridge in Venice." Under the bridge, boats floated, and the figures on the bridge were blurry, with a misty, filtered effect. Looking at it, I remembered last autumn when I saved up three months of salary to take a trip to Suzhou. That night, strolling along Pingjiang Road, I also crossed a small stone bridge. The water under the bridge flowed slowly, and a guy nearby was playing guitar and singing "Chengdu." I was being a bit sentimental then, took a photo of the night scene, and posted it on Moments with the caption, "Life is not just about the immediate struggles." And what happened? My mom instantly commented, "Stay up less, drink more water."
Alas, that's about the extent of an adult's poetry. Honestly, when I stood on that bridge for ten minutes, watching the flickering reflections of lights on the water, what was on my mind wasn't poetry or distant lands, but all about next month's rent and the Huabei bill that was due soon.
As for the painting of the church, with several women kneeling in front of the confessionals, light slanting down from the high windows, casting long shadows, I've only been in a church a few times in my life, but that feeling of having a lot to say but not being able to open your mouth—I know it all too well.
Just last Friday, I worked overtime again until 11 PM. On my way home, I bought a can of cold beer at the convenience store and sat on the broken bench in front of my apartment building. I really wanted to call my buddy back home to chat, but when I opened my contacts, the last call record was from six months ago when he got married and I sent him a red envelope. So, I silently put my phone back in my pocket, sat there, watching the windows upstairs turn off one by one, and the beer in my hand went from cold to warm.
You know, in this life, aren't we all looking for someone to hear our "confession"? The funny thing is, even if I were given a confession booth, I might not even know where to start pouring out my troubles.
After all this rambling, I looked out the window, and Beijing's sky was already pitch black. My bowl of instant noodles had completely turned to mush. Suddenly, I felt a bit envious of that old man Passini. When he felt stifled, at least he could paint what he saw with a brush, while I can only, in the gaps between grueling overtime, type these disjointed ramblings while staring at the paintings on my phone screen.
Alright, consider this as finding a tree hole in this foreign land to vent my frustrations. If the translation software turned this into some incoherent gibberish, brothers and sisters, please bear with me and just read it as best you can.
Participant of The Water of Venice Can't Reach My Rental Room, but It Floods My Heart