Chapter 12: Women Only Slow Down My Painting Speed

“Ah.”

The girl named Wenwen was still hesitating about whether to draw, but the next moment, her friend pressed her back into the seat.

“I really can’t sit still. How about you do it?”

“Can I read a book then?”

Zheng Fei nodded. “Sure.”

Wenwen pulled a novel from her small bag—surprisingly, it was Wang Meng’s *Long Live Youth*.

After a brief interaction, Zheng Fei had a good sense that Wenwen was a quiet type, while the girl carrying the camera was quite the opposite.

Once Wenwen started flipping through her book, Zheng Fei observed carefully before beginning to sketch.

After two days of intensive practice, Zheng Fei’s drawing speed had noticeably improved, but when drawing them, he deliberately slowed down.

Besides capturing the form accurately, he worked on the tone, even paying attention to details like individual strands of hair.

As Zheng Fei sketched, the woman named Haitang was soon captivated by his skill.

She kept muttering under her breath, “His work is even better than Zhu Gang from our group.”

What unsettled Haitang, however, was how focused the young artist was—utterly silent, not uttering a word.

Wenwen was naturally quiet and a bookworm; she never paid attention to others while reading.

At this moment, she seemed like an outsider, neither sitting nor standing properly, pouting and pacing small circles nearby.

As dusk deepened, Haitang glanced at her watch increasingly often, her brows knitting together tighter each time.

While drawing, Zheng Fei also observed the two girls—both undeniably beautiful.

Their faces bore no makeup; if he had to describe, they were not as stunning as Gong Xue but certainly held their own.

One could say Shanghai’s deep-rooted culture still fostered many beauties.

Zheng Fei was drawing slowly this time, even as the light faded, he kept going.

Finally, Haitang, growing impatient, asked, “Excuse me, is it done yet?”

“Almost. I just need to refine it a bit—about half an hour more.”

“Half an hour? Can you go faster? We have other things to do and might not have time.”

Zheng Fei had been waiting for this line. Pretending to think for a while, he said, “If you’re in a hurry, you can come back next time to pick it up. I’ve already memorized your friend’s overall facial structure, so I can finish it without her sitting for me again.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“...”

Haitang was slightly annoyed. “You’re really something—I don’t even know what to say. By the way, how can we find you?”

“Easy. The Bund in Shanghai, under the plane trees—I’ll be drawing there for a while.”

Haitang checked her watch again.

“Okay, we have to go now. We work nearby, so we’ll leave the drawing with you and come back for it later.”

“No problem.”

Zheng Fei’s guess was right—anyone working near the Bund probably wasn’t of complicated status.

He wasn’t particularly interested in the two women; his real focus was on the Seagull camera they carried.

The slow pace of his drawing was merely to buy time and create a chance to meet again.

He considered himself good-looking, humorous, and popular with women, but women were always cautious around strangers—especially beautiful ones.

They often had irrational fears of being harmed.

Dealing with such women required patience and gradual trust-building; rushing to borrow the camera would only lead to failure.

...

After seeing them off, Zheng Fei immediately sped up his drawing.

In less than five minutes, he finished the portrait of Wenwen.

Looking at the sketch before him, Zheng Fei stretched, not recalling the last time he’d been this focused on drawing.

Just then, a voice came from behind: “Young man, your fundamentals in sketching are solid, but it feels too realistic—lacking some artistic expression.”

Zheng Fei was slightly taken aback.

Turning around, he saw a middle-aged man with short hair, dressed in a white shirt.

Zheng Fei wasn’t sure how long the man had been standing there, but from his comment, he assumed this was a fellow artist.

In his previous life, such a remark would have drawn a sharp retort immediately.

But Zheng Fei remembered a saying: in Beijing, don’t boast about your official rank; in Shanghai, don’t brag about your wealth.

In this place and era, anyone able to make such a comment probably wasn’t of low status.

Zheng Fei smiled, scratching his head with an innocent, humble expression. “The drawing isn’t good—please forgive me.”

The middle-aged man blinked, then rolled his eyes. “Being overly modest is arrogance. By the way, young man, which school do you attend?”

“I only studied up to middle school. Now, I’m unemployed.”

The man was momentarily confused. “But your fundamentals are so solid. Which teacher taught you?”

Zheng Fei wasn’t about to reveal how much his family had invested to get him into the Communication University’s comic arts program.

Thinking quickly, he replied casually, “An elder in my family taught me.”

Curious, the man asked, “What’s the elder’s name? Would you mind telling me?”

Zheng Fei frowned slightly. “My relative thinks my drawing is poor and doesn’t want me to use their name outside.”

Hearing this, the man froze again. Poor? With work like this?

His own students lacked such solid fundamentals. Could there really be a hidden master outside the official circles?

The man sighed, rummaged through his belongings, and pulled out a cigarette case from Da Qianmen. Borrowing a pencil from Zheng Fei, he wrote down his contact information.

“Young man, I live near Tianzifang. If you want to exchange ideas, come find me.”

Zheng Fei took the cigarette case and was somewhat surprised to see the address: No. 77 Sinan Road, Meng Guang Studio.

He hadn’t expected this middle-aged man named Meng Guang to be a big shot—though not a celebrity, he was the mentor of Chen Yifei and Wei Jingshan, and back in ’79, had directed the instructional film *Sketching*... a respected elder in the field.

After a brief exchange, the man suddenly asked, “Young man, did you deliberately draw slowly just now?”

Zheng Fei was embarrassed and laughed. “No, I just got a bit tired after drawing all day.”

Meng Guang smiled. “The girl reading just now—I know her. She’s the granddaughter of our school’s vice dean and a primary school teacher. Many men are after her. You’ll have to try harder.”

Zheng Fei’s mouth twitched. It seemed Meng misunderstood—he wasn’t particularly interested in women anymore. He’d had his fill in his past life, unlocked all the experiences. Now, his mind was set only on borrowing that camera.

To be honest, he had no feelings for the girl reading. Rather, he was intrigued by the one carrying the camera.

“Alright, young man. I’m off now. If you have time, come visit my studio.”

“Will do.”

As the light dimmed, street lamps flickered on, and the neon lights of Nanjing Road shone brighter than during the day, bustling and lively.

On his way back, Zheng Fei passed the Seagull camera supply store, where various models were displayed in glass cases.

The prices were truly daunting, but for photography in this era, cameras were still relatively affordable.

The real expense was the film.

Domestic film hadn’t appeared yet; all was Kodak or Fuji, and a single roll cost twenty-five yuan.

That didn’t include development fees.

Currently, developing a photo cost about one yuan per print.

That meant the total cost from shooting to development was nearly fifty yuan per roll—no wonder those carrying cameras were envied.

It was a symbol of financial power.

Clearly, he needed to earn money first!