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In the morning light, shimmering like satin, Xiao Ya's fingers repeatedly traced the embossed gold School Emblem. Her mother was pushing a glass of hot milk towards her, the sound of the glass clinking against the wooden table startled her eyelashes to flutter—this century-old temple of art had a higher threshold than she had imagined. The words "Deaf and Mute" on the application form had once furrowed the brow of the admissions director.
The stained glass dome of the Art Studio filtered sunlight into colorful fragments as Xiao Ya held her charcoal pencil above the canvas. The outline of the Plaster Statue of Apollo was suddenly interrupted by an eraser that reached in from the side, and a round-faced girl wearing a fisherman's hat winked at her, her fingertips dancing on the palette: "The shadow should shift two centimeters to the left." The cobalt blue paint smudged on the tip of her nose became a mark of their friendship.
The dusk of Plum Rain Season always carried a weight of humidity. Xiao Ya squatted in the back alley of the art museum, sketching a stray cat. The orange cat's tail brushed against her hand, which was smeared with acrylic paint, and suddenly it arched its back in alarm. A senior wearing torn jeans knocked on the iron fence with an umbrella handle, vibrations traveling through the ground: "A heavy rain is coming!" As they scrambled to save their sketches, rainwater had already soaked through Xiao Ya's canvas shoes.
The white walls of the Children's Hospital were always too bright. Xiao Ya's gesture of unfolding the drawing paper resembled unrolling a magical scroll. The chemotherapy girl wore a knitted cap over her bald head, and crayons traced swirling rainbows on paper. When the child's mother pointed to a vague butterfly shape in the drawing with a crumpled tissue in hand, Xiao Ya felt the sign language gesture taught by her teacher years ago burning in her throat—that was the gesture for "hope."
The spotlight at the Award Ceremony was hotter than expected, and the trophy's base pressed against Xiao Ya's calloused palm. When the host announced the theme "Silent Shout of the Mute World," the exhibition hall suddenly plunged into darkness. Thirty seconds later, when the lights came back on, all the sunflowers in their frames leaned slightly towards her, as if the entire hall was paying homage.
The red carpet at the Movie Premiere seemed endless, and Xiao Ya's ankles trembled in her high heels. When an image of herself at fifteen curled up in the art supplies room appeared on screen, the director beside her suddenly signed in sign language: "You act better than the actors." The salty scent of popcorn wafted from the back row, drowning out the warmth rising in her eyes.
At the Paris Biennale, the curator with long white braids ran her fingertips over Xiao Ya's new work "Voiceprint." The varying depths on the canvas formed a sound wave pattern as she handed over specially made gloves, watching as the curator's palm brushed over those raised peaks of paint. In a glass display case, a hearing aid and an oil painting spatula were exhibited side by side, spotlight casting star-like reflections on their metallic surfaces.
In late spring, cherry blossoms mixed with turpentine swirled around in the exhibition hall as Xiao Ya became entranced by her imitation of Monet's "Water Lilies." Suddenly, a minty shadow fell across the canvas; a boy in a gray sweater was sketching her profile in his sketchbook. The hearing aid behind his ear glimmered with cold titanium light. In that suspended moment with his pencil hovering above paper, two sign language gestures emerged simultaneously in midair—"Light" and "Shadow" intertwined to form new shapes.
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