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墨書 Inktalez
The autumn rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the art museum, and Xiao Ya's fingertips were still stained with wet cobalt blue paint. She gazed at the crowd in the exhibition hall, suddenly squinting as a flash from a camera caught her off guard. Three days ago, her series "Listener of the Wind" had been uploaded to social media, and now it hung in a gilded frame—depicting Deaf-Mute Boys standing with arms outstretched amidst Wheat Waves, hundreds of paper cranes adorned with musical notes fluttering around them.
"This is the most stunning piece of realism this year," the Curator said, gesturing in Sign Language while the light from his watch danced on Xiao Ya's cheek. She noticed an elderly man in the crowd, leaning on a white cane, gently tracing the Braille Description Board with his wrinkled hand, tears welling in his cloudy eyes.
On the day of the press conference, twenty cameras formed a steel jungle among the red velvet seats. When the host in a Mint Green Suit raised the microphone, Xiao Ya suddenly caught a whiff of disinfectant from her childhood hospital. She buried her trembling fingers in the folds of her skirt until she spotted her mother below, signing "sunflower"—their agreed signal for courage.
"Can you share your inspiration for this work?" The reporter's question flickered on the Electronic Screen. Xiao Ya pulled out her sketchbook and swiftly drew: a girl in a school uniform crouching in a corner of a classroom, cherry blossoms drifting in through the window and landing on her Hearing Aid. As she held up the paper, the sound of shutters clicked like waves washing over the venue; a little girl wearing a bow suddenly dashed onto the stage, signing "Thank you for letting me hear the rainbow."
On the third day of the exhibition, security had to cordon off "Confession of the Silent." In front of that life-sized self-portrait lay a heap of hand-folded Thousand Paper Cranes; a middle-aged man dressed in a suit and leather shoes squatted on the ground crying for ten minutes—his daughter held up a card reading "I Want To Learn Sign Language" in the painting, which was also the tutoring class registration form he had torn up just last week.
In her Art Studio late at night, Xiao Ya opened her 134th letter. The yellowed paper was filled with crooked handwriting: "I am a Deaf Welder on a construction site; yesterday my boss finally bought a Flashing Alarm." Enclosed was a rusty nut that glowed warm yellow under her desk lamp. She illustrated these stories into comic strips and one day discovered a pinned comment in her message section: "City Disabled Persons' Federation invites you to participate in Accessibility Facility Renovation Design."
When Mr. Lin brought good news, it coincided with the first snowfall. He deliberately hid the acceptance letter inside an art book, watching as Xiao Ya blushed while frantically searching for information about the Paris Academy of Fine Arts. "Silly girl," he signed, "remember to bring your Rainbow Paint." Outside, snowflakes danced against the glass like countless white musical notes.
The day her father secretly transformed their garage into an Art Studio, Xiao Ya found an old Sign Language Dictionary in a toolbox. The front page bore childish handwriting: "For my little angel's wings—Dad took a month to find this word." When her mother brought ginger tea, she stared blankly at the crease on that page where it had stopped at the sign for "Pride."
When the delivery person brought her 999th package, wisteria had climbed up the garden wall. Xiao Ya crouched among mountains of parcels and opened a tie-dye bag that spilled out Shell Wind Chimes and a group photo of children from Deaf-Mute School. On the back of the photo was written in Fluorescent Marker: "Sister, today our whole class went to see the sea; it turns out that waves really are Blue Sound."
At her Graduation Exhibition in late spring, Xiao Ya posed with a Sign Language gesture before her new work. On canvas, thousands of hands cradled a crescent-shaped Hearing Aid, each palm line flowing with starlight. Amongst the crowd, a man in worn work clothes suddenly raised his arms high; his hands danced under the lights as he signed "We are with you."
On the last day before closing at the museum, a cleaning lady discovered an impromptu sketch in the corner: a girl in a red dress tiptoeing to wipe an "Accessible for Disabled Persons" sign while beside her, a mop bucket reflected the evening glow. No one knew this was Xiao Ya's final piece before leaving, just as no one noticed she had quietly placed a Night Glow Sign Language Diagram on the emergency light by the Fire Escape.
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