Black Sail
Chapter 161: CLXI. Pure Concentration

Chapter 161: CLXI. Pure Concentration

"Really boring, just a bunch of damaged paper, and it’s even an incomplete book."

Liszt lost interest, the first half was here, but who knows where the second half went.

But one must admit, the level of artistic skill on the Western Continent is impressively high.

Liszt knew a bit about appreciation.

Things considered as art all possess one of two mutually contradicting characteristics, and whichever characteristic they belong to must be taken to the extreme.

One extreme is valueless art, merely a pure natural object, macroscopic, intuitive, and soul-stirring.

In paintings, for example, a woman holding an umbrella, less common in novels, like The Old Man and the Sea.

Another extreme involves art that is crazily valued, what it plays with is reality.

Less common in paintings, like the barge haulers on the Volga River. But there are too many novels, valued to the point of suffocation, as if raping the reader, who are you? Ji Wuming? That’s a name, a code, you could be called Ji Wuming, I could too, anyone could. But remove this code, then who is it?

It’s all about promoting a formatted ideological heavy-armed system.

Until the end when it fast-forwards to, I killed myself!

Liszt liked a word, called ’aftertaste’, it was his sole standard for appraising everything.

A work’s merit depended on its aftertaste, how it could be recalled after many years and touch someone anew.

That is art.

On the contrary, the most fortified of things, without memorable points, without that fattening touch that brings it all to life, is somewhat inferior.

This doesn’t conflict with the two characteristics mentioned before, reflecting the fierce aftertaste created by the two extremes.

As for those in the middle ground, valued some, but only a little, it would have been better not to value them at all, made a mess of it, stupidly bumbling, you could say it’s trash, no matter how technically great, it lacks that... divine touch, achieving the purest concentration. Please, you are pretty weak.

Of course, there are some beyond this scope.

Clever, eerie, incomprehensible but immensely shocking existences. Like The Scream, Picasso, and some postmodern deconstructed oddities, as well as some outlandish detective novels, killing someone off as if proving the Goldbach conjecture, so damn abstract, just kill with one slice, what’s there to discuss?

But such influence is far lesser, one might reach the realm of the Red Dust Immortal, but cannot ascertain the path, the aforementioned two types can attain the Immortal Emperor Fruit Position.

Speaking of the Immortal Domain, discourse of Heaven, from ancient battles, all emperors turn to void.

Gazing at Heaven Path, a bleak dream, with scattered white hair, the blue sea and sky are dry.

How many sages reduced to dust.

Liszt began to act pretentious.

He talked his theory over with the four companions, naturally the improved Western Continent version, standing hands behind his back, casually critiquing the art in the gallery.

Weber No.2 made no sense with prenatal education.

Swan was speechless, heck, talking art when about to chop someone up?

"This aftertaste from the appreciation shouldn’t land you in Hell."

Morison didn’t understand art but understood naked bodies, looking at a full-nude female painting, he thought Liszt was quite right, this aftertaste was really something.

Meredith had been educated, although not up to Pedan National standards, still a rather prestigious institution, she found it strange that such profound talk could come from the mouth of a desperado.

And the works of art in this exhibition.

Indeed, all were presentable, genuine gold fears no fire.

Liszt looked at some paintings and sculptures, all crafted by the late greats from various nations of the Western Continent. The artistic quality was certainly high.

The reason why art fetches high prices isn’t actually due to its artistic content, but rather its influence, with complex relations involved.

Maybe somewhere, an unknown artist who has passed away has a groundbreaking work that could shock the world lying around at home.

"Bro, you really get art, huh!"

A newly rich guy standing nearby heard Liszt’s words and was instantly in awe; his brother was a powerful minister at court, with connections at the top. He was in the iron ore business, which was booming with the development of the Aran Railway.

Lately, he had made a killing and was about to vomit blood because of it. He planned to go to the private exhibition later to buy some pieces for his home to show off his taste and blend into high-end circles.

He had actually hired a so-called art appraiser to help, to identify what was worth bidding on and what wasn’t, so as not to come across as a fool spending foolishly.

But this appraiser seemed pretty unreliable. When asked about his expertise, he would babble on about color, brushwork, line quality, and a sense of the era, using the most oblique and evasive jargon.

It just felt unreliable.

After listening to Liszt, it was like an epiphany. So this was what they call art, huh? A combination of distinctive features and influence, the cultural value backed by market manipulators, all crafting this elite circle.

Huh?

Liszt turned toward the source of the voice.

Dressed in an expensive Magic Beast fur cloak, with six gaudy rings on ten fingers, all huge gemstones and jewels, the quality obvious at first glance. His wrist and neck chains were just as flashy, and even his cane was gold-plated with embedded diamonds.

It was like "newly rich" was written all over his face.

Good lord, if you were in Heaven Port, I’d stab you twice and strip you bare.

You should be thankful you’re in a country governed by the rule of law, or else I’d kidnap your whole family for ransom.

"You’re speaking nonsense; no one gets art more than I do. I’ll make Duguli great again."

Liszt started to bullshit.

Swan elbowed Liszt, reminding him to focus on the task at hand; there was no time to schmooze with the affluent "Lord." They assumed he was a Lord because he was flanked by two Knight bodyguards, and if he could wear a Sword inside, he must be a bona fide Lord.

Liszt gave a knowing look, signaling there was no rush. He didn’t know how much money was needed to enter the private exhibition; he might count as wealthy, but compared to these nobles who fed on the people’s fat, he was still far behind.

Perhaps he could find a way to get in directly.

The nouveau riche was profoundly moved, "Courageous are those with great artistic insight." Anyone who could make such statements was either a moron or genuinely knowledgeable.

"Bro, I need a favor from you."

The nouveau riche sidled up to Liszt, a bit embarrassed, afraid of being seen as ignorant of art and ridiculed.

In Duguli, everyone was about putting up a front, all high and mighty. If you didn’t posture, you’d be seen as a bumpkin and laughed at.

He confessed his predicament, wanting Liszt to help him pick something good in the private exhibition that was worth bidding on.

Liszt was speechless. Man, with your fashionable dress, who would dare mock you? You’ve already reached the level where whatever you call art becomes art.

Anything you collect, people who suck up to you would hype it to the skies, even if it was worthless junk.

"Who the hell do you think you’re looking down on? I’m here to bid too, might just end up competing with you later."

Liszt planned to scrape some money off this nouveau riche. To be the Boss, he naturally couldn’t have too much money.

"Hey, no problem. I’ll just bid on a couple of pieces and give them to you."

The nouveau riche was candid.

Liszt was dumbfounded. You are the real definition of a rich tycoon! It’s the old Aran art of bullshitting after all.

Meanwhile, at this very moment,

Mr. Sefer was strolling through the private exhibition, completely unaware of the dangers he was about to face.